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A ROMANCE OF OLD WARS 






A Romance of Old Wars 


BY 

VALENTINA HAWTREY 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1906 




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DEDICATED 

TO 

FREDA HAW TREY 








A ROMANCE OF OLD WARS 


CHAPTER I 

Matthieu de Chatelfors was born at his chateau 
one April night in the year 1362. 

“Thank God it is a boy!” ejaculated Dame Mathilde 
the next day as she sat by her daughter-in-law’s bed- 
side with her swaddled grandson on her knee. She 
had spent half the night in prayer, and her wrinkled 
eyelids looked brown; but her dark eyes were bright, 
and she held herself very erect. 

Dame Yolande smiled weakly. She was lying upon 
dull purple velvet cushions in a four-post bed draped 
with the same mourning colour ; the hair was strained 
off her high, narrow forehead, and hidden under a 
square white kerchief. 

“I was thinking ... as it is a son . . she 
suggested, “that we might invite ” 

“Invite! invite!” retorted Dame Mathilde sharply. 
“Can you never think of anything but of filling the 
chateau with guests? Do you forget that your child 
is fatherless?” 

“Of course I don’t,” cried Dame Yolande, her high 
cheek-bones growing red and her retreating chin 
quivering as she spoke. “I — I — it is very hard that 
you should speak so to me at — at — such a time ; and I 


2 A Romance of Old Wars 

am sure I loved my husband, and — and it’s very wrong 
of you to remind me that he is dead — just when I am 
recovering — my spirits. You — you wouldn’t have 
dared if he had been alive!” 

Dame Mathilde gave a short laugh. 

‘"And you yourself are glad,” added Dame Yolande. 

‘‘Glad! Thank God indeed!” said Dame Mathilde 
devoutly. 

Dame Yolande moved her head restlessly from side 
to side. 

“You have upset me ... I feel wretched! Barbe! 
Barbe !” she called. “Send for Maitre Isaac ! 
Barbe !” 

“It is no use calling Barbe,” said Dame Mathilde. 

“Why not? Why doesn’t she come? Isn’t she 
here?” 

“I sent her to the still-room to prepare a cordial for 
you.” 

“Odette! Odette!” cried Dame Yolande excitedly. 
“Marthe ! oh, mon Dieu ! Why don’t you send for 
someone? I want Maitre Isaac! Oh, what shall I 
do? What shall I do?” 

“Yolande, control yourself. You’ll wake the child. 
Maitre Isaac can’t come. You must make up your 
mind to do without him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Maitre Isaac has gone.” 

“Gone!” 

“I have sent him away. I am sorry I ever gave in 
to such a whim. It is a scandal for a Christian woman 
to trust herself to the sorcery and heathenish tricks of 
a Jew. I am sorry, I say, that I ever gave in to you. 


A Romance of Old Wars 3 

It was only because I feared you might injure the 
child that 1 did so, but it has been on my conscience 
ever since. It is a mercy God did not punish you by 
giving you a dwarf, or an idiot, or a girl.” 

Dame Yolande listened to her, gaping with astonish- 
ment; then, hiding her face in her hands, she began 
to cry. 

‘‘You wouldn’t have cared if I had died!” she 
sobbed. “Everyone knows that Jews are the best 
physicians, and it is very important ” 

“I would rather risk my life than be cured by a 
heathen.” 

“But the child ” 

“If God wills the child to live, it lives,” said Dame 
Mathilde obstinately. 

“I am sure if Matthieu had been alive ” 

“Don’t let us quarrel to-day, Yolande. Little 
Matthieu is alive.” She spoke almost tenderly. 

“He’s got black eyes, like his father,” said Dame 
Yolande, drying her own large pale blue ones. 

“God grant that I may live to hold his son on my 
knee, as I have held his father I” said Dame Mathilde, 
looking down at the sleeping baby with an air of 
ownership. 

Dame Yolande eyed her with dislike. 

“Her face is like wrinkled leather,” she murmured 
under her breath. “And she dresses like a nun.” 

“He shall marry Marguerite de Richecour’s child,” 
continued Dame Mathilde. “How fortunate that her 
baby should be a girl, and born only a week ago!” 

Dame Yolande grew scarlet. 

“You say it on purpose to humiliate me !” she cried 


4 A Romance of Old Wars 

furiously. “My child to marry a Richecour! Fd 
rather die!’' 

“It’s a good alliance ” 

“A good alliance! With the daughter of the man 
who shamed me, insulted me! Do you forget that 
I was brought up to marry Arnoult de Richecour, 
and that I was sent home when I was fifteen, because 
he — he — preferred that little fool Marguerite — or 
rather his mother did, for he could not call his soul 
his own? Forget! of course you don’t forget! But 
I’ll not submit! I’ll not bear it! He is my son, and 
I will choose his wife!” 

“If he is your son he is my grandson,” retorted 
Dame Mathilde. “The Richecours are nobly born, 
and they are virtuous, sober ” 

“Sober! Mon Dieu ! They wearied me to tears 
with their long sermons !” 

“If you would think a little more of the family and 
less of yourself ” 

“I do think of the family. The Richecours are all 
as ugly as sin! I don’t want Matthieu’s children to 
have flat noses !” 

Dame Mathilde pressed her shrivelled lips together 
with an air of exasperation. 

For a moment there was silence. 

“I am getting old, Yolande,” she said presently. 
“I am the widow of a Chatelfors, and the mother of 
his children, some of whom God has taken from me” — 
she crossed herself as she spoke — “and now ” 

“It is very unkind,” whimpered Dame Yolande, “to 
taunt me — because I — I have only one child.” 

“I do not taunt you,” said Dame Mathilde. “I 


A Romance of Old Wars 5 

have never taunted you all these years, when I feared 
that Matthieu would have no son to succeed him; but 
you must remember that when his child dies ” 

‘'Oh!’' shrieked Dame Yolande, waking the baby, 
who broke into a long wail. “How can you talk of 
such things! Give him to me.” 

Dame Mathilde rose impatiently, the child in her 
arms crying and beating its little hands against her 
chin ; she walked to the door. 

“Barbe!” she cried sharply. 

“Give him to me !” cried Dame Yolande. 

“Barbe!” cried Dame Mathilde again. 

“Yes, dame.” 

Barbe, the nurse, who was short and plump and 
trim, bounded into the room with the tight elasticity 
of an indiarubber ball. Her handsome hazel eyes 
flashed from one to the other. 

“What is it ? What is the matter ?” she cried shrilly. 

“Take the child !” said Dame Mathilde. 

“Yes, dame. Come, then, my beauty.” 

“Give him to me,” wailed Dame Yolande. “He 
shall not marry a Richecour ! he shall not ! I tell you, 
I will choose his wife. He shall marry one of my 
cousins de Soulon.” 

“Eh, Holy Virgin!” cried Barbe. “Do you talk of 
his wife before he can recognise his own mother! 
And which is to be his bride, I should like to know ! 
The demoiselle Marie will be wrinkled before he is 
in his teens. Or perhaps you were thinking of 
Madame Jeanne? To be sure, she may be a widow 
by then. One never knows !” 

Dame Mathilde laughed shortly. 


6 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Hold your tongue!” cried Dame Yolande. 

“Hold my tongue! Oh, yes! But, my daughter, 
it is not reasonable ” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about.” 

“Eh, no!” Barbe tossed her head sarcastically. 

“Madame Jeanne is enceinte T said Dame Yolande 
with dignity. 

“E-eh! Holy Virgin! And how do you know it 
will be a girl?” cried Barbe. 

Dame Mathilde went downstairs to the hall. 

“Send Maitre Paul to me,” she said to a servant; 
and a moment later the secretary shuffled in and 
bowed. 

“I want you to write a letter,” she commanded. 

“Yes, dame,” he said huskily. 

He sat down at the table, and unfastened the ink- 
pot and pen-case that were hanging from his girdle. 
He was short-sighted, and fumbled for his quill. 
Then he spread a small roll of parchment on the 
table, and spread himself over it, looking up at Dame 
Mathilde from under his gray eyebrows without 
raising his head. 

“To the Sieur Arnoult de Richecour,” she dictated, 
pacing up and down. “Much honoured and well- 
loved Cousin, — I write to express to you the great joy 
we have felt on receiving the tidings that Madame 
Marguerite, your virtuous and honoured spouse, has 
given birth to another child, and by the same hand 
to convey to you the glad news that Dame Yolande, 
my dearly loved daughter, lately bereft of her much- 
loved lord, my son, has been brought to bed of an 
heir. Much honoured and well-loved cousin, 1 pray 


A Romance of Old Wars 7 

you to believe me that nothing could better please me 
or my daughter Yolande than an alliance with your 
family, and therefore we ask the hand of this your 
youngest daughter for our son Matthieu, on condition 
that when she shall have attained the age of ten years 
she shall be handed over to our care and charge, and 
that her dot be fitting and sufficient to maintain her 
position.” 

“That is all,” said Dame Mathilde. 

The secretary rose, and she sat down in his place to 
sign it. 

“See that it is sent to-day — now — at once,” she 
said. “Pierre can go. Tell him to take the white 
horse.” 

“Yes, dame.” He bowed and turned to go. 

“Wait,” she cried, and went to an iron-bound chest 
that stood against the wall under the old Sieur’s 
shield and spear. She selected the key from the bunch 
that hung from her girdle, and raised the lid. 

Maitre Paul stood watching her vaguely, as if 
thinking of something else. 

“Hold the lid,” she said impatiently. Her old big- 
jointed hands looked white against the dark wood, 
and her black sleeves hung in shadowy pointed folds 
into the open chest. 

The secretary started and shuffled hurriedly across 
the hall to help her. 

The chest was packed with gold and silver goblets, 
ewers, ivory caskets, and vases of precious stones or 
enamel. Dame Mathilde chose two cups — one of 
lapis-lazuli, the other of gold set round with amethysts 
— then she closed and locked the chest. 


8 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Let Pierre offer these as gifts from myself and 
Dame Yolande,” she said. “You understand? I wish 
him to start at once, without losing a moment.” 

“Yes, dame,” said Maitre Paul huskily, and cleared 
his throat. 

“Bien !” She gave a short laugh, and went back to 
her daughter-in-law’s room. 

When Dame Yolande heard that the letter had been 
sent she went into hysterics. 

“Sainte Vierge!” cried Barbe. “Don’t disturb 
yourself, madame. He’ll take the matter into his own 
hands when the time comes. E-e-eh !” and she tossed 
her head. 


CHAPTER II 


When Matthieu and Huette de Richecour were both 
ten years old they met for the first time, and on the 
very evening of their betrothal they quarrelled. 

The chateau was filled with guests, and the day was 
given up to feasting and dancing. 

During the banquet the musicians were grouped by 
the door that led to the kitchen, and as the servants 
marched past them in single file, carrying the great 
dishes aloft, they worked their bows busily, with heads 
bent down to the instruments, playing sweet, thin, 
monotonous music. 

Matthieu and Huette sat side by side, and shared 
a plate. The silver alms-pot stood in front of the 
little Sieur, and he put into it a portion of each dish for 
the poor. 

He was a sturdy, dark-haired, dark-skinned child, 
sumptuously dressed in a crimson and gold brocade 
cotte-hardie, reaching to just below his knees; his 
hose were of crimson silk, and his shoes, also crimson, 
were tipped with gold. 

Huette was small, with quantities of red hair, which 
hung down her back in two long plaits. Her face was 
short and very vivacious; the under lids of her blue 
eyes were straight, making the irises appear the shape 
of half-moons ; her mouth was wide and thin, and the 
small upper teeth, well shaped and set evenly, pro- 


9 


lO 


A Romance of Old Wars 


truded over her lower lip. She was dressed in bright 
blue. 

Outside the barred, paneless windows the peasants 
had collected, and were hustling and elbowing each 
other, squabbling in undertones to get a good view of 
the feast. 

“The guests are going to tilt this afternoon,’' re- 
marked Matthieu. 

“You too?” asked Huette. 

“Mon Dieu! I wish I were!” he cried. 

“Why, you would be upset at the first encounter,” 
she said scornfully. 

Matthieu grew red and opened his lips to retort; 
then changing his mind, he laughed and began again. 

“Dites done!” he said. “Was that pony you were 
riding this morning your own? It is a beauty. Did 
you notice mine? His name is Roland; he knows it 
quite well, and if he hears my voice, even far off, he 
whinnies. Has yours got a name ? I have named my 
sword too, like Charlemagne. He called his La 
Joyeuse, you know. My uncle Raoul — that one with 
the gray beard and the green houppelande — he gave it 
to me, and I have called it La Verite.” 

“And does your sword whinny too?” asked Huette 
scornfully. 

Matthieu broke into a fit of laughter. 

“Whinny!” he cried. “I should think it did. It 
is magic, you know, and no one could steal it, because 
it would call out, and then I should kill the thief. 
And if I drew it now, it would dazzle you so that it 
would blind you, and if I were killed it would break 
in two of itself.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 1 1 


'‘Tiens! You ought to have a vielle and sing at 
feasts,” said Huette tartly. 

Matthieu gave a short, angry laugh, and said no 
more. 

“This evening there is to be a dance. We shall 
dance together,” he remarked presently. 

“Shall !” she cried. “What if I say I won’t?” 

“By the saints !” cried Matthieu, “you can say so if 
you like, but you’ll have to deal with my grandmother 
if you do.” 

Huette glanced towards Dame Mathilde, who was 
talking to Dame Marguerite de Richecour. At that 
moment the musicians paused to rest, and in a sudden 
lulling of the chatter they heard her say emphatically : 

“I rule my house in small things, as in great. I 
look upon vigilance as a duty.” 

“To be sure,” said Dame Marguerite placidly. She 
was stout; her breath was short, and she wheezed as 
she spoke. 

“Is she — is Dame Mathilde — very stern?” asked 
Huette apprehensively; and Matthieu made a 
face. 

The afternoon was passed in festivities and elaborate 
amusements, with an interval for repose, and after 
sunset the dance began. 

Torch-bearers stood round the hall, and the red 
flare made the shadows leap up the walls, shrink into 
corners, and slide along the floor. Gigantic shadows 
followed the gestures of the dancers, the nodding of 
the tall head-dresses, and mocked the fiddlers’ pointed 
elbows, the turning arm of the vielle-player, the start- 
ing fingers of the flutist. 


12 A Romance of Old Wars 

Matthieu led Huette into the centre of the hall, and 
the talk and laughter paused as everyone turned to 
watch them. 

Both were flushed and serious with excitement. 
He bowed ; she sank in a profound curtsey, her long 
blue upper skirt flung over her left arm. He held 
the tips of her fingers, and with grave precision they 
pointed their toes, turning, retreating, advancing, 
curtseying, bowing, translating the mournful droning 
music into silent, sedate movement. 

“They seem made for each other,^’ said Dame Mar- 
guerite, breathing heavily and beaming. 

“It’s fate ! ha ! ha !” said the Sieur Arnoult, rub- 
bing his hands. “Don’t you agree? Fate! Eh! 
Fate !” 

“To be sure!” murmured Dame Marguerite. 

“Fate!” cried Dame Yolande sharply. “Mon Dieu! 
if you mean to have your own way, and strive till you 
get it, do you call that Fate?” 

Dame Mathilde frowned. 

“It is the will of God,” she said. 

“To be sure!” wheezed Dame Marguerite. 

“Madame,” said Matthieu to Huette, “you are out of 
time.” 

“Oh, indeed !” she cried, tossing her head. 

“Madame,” he insisted, “you are dancing out of 
step.” 

“And what if I am !” she cried recklessly. “It’s 
for you to keep step with me, whatever I choose to 
do.” 

Matthieu gave the short laugh that was like his grand- 
mother’s, and did not reply. Huette glanced at him. 


A Romance of Old Wars i 3 

and deliberately set herself to perplex him : she hung 
behind the measure, forestalled a curtsey or a turn, 
then invented a new step, then again dragged behind 
him. 

Matthieu set his lips and said nothing, but he atten- 
tively fitted his steps to hers, disregarding the music. 
There was an angry light in his dark eyes. As the 
dance ended he bowed, kissed her lips, and left her 
still without a word. 

A little later in the evening Dame Mathilde ap- 
proached Huette, who was standing by herself watch- 
ing the dancers. 

“Where is Matthieu?” she asked. 

“Over there, madame,” said Huette timidly. 

“Why are you not dancing?” 

« j 

“Are you tired?” 

“No, dame, but ” 

“But what?” 

“He — he doesn’t — he hasn’t ” 

Dame Mathilde frowned. She beckoned to 
Matthieu, who made his way round the hall to her 
side. 

“Don’t you see that Huette is not dancing?” she 
said sternly. 

“Yes, dame.” 

“Then, lead her out.” 

“No, dame,” he replied, fixing his eyes on Huette, 
who gasped and grew scarlet. 

“What!” exclaimed Dame Mathilde. 

“Oh,” cried Huette furiously, “I am sure I don’t 
want to dance with him.” 


14 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde, ''do what I tell 
you.” 

He did not move. 

"Do you hear what I say?” 

"I hear.” 

"Then, obey.” 

"No.” 

"I order you.” 

"Madame,” cried Huette, "I — I will not — I will not 
dance with him now!” 

Dame Mathilde’s black eyes flashed; she pressed 
her lips together with an effort for self-control. 

"Matthieu, I will have no scandal made. Huette 
is your betrothed, and you are to treat her as such.” 

He did not reply. 

"I — I don’t want to marry him I” cried Huette. "I 
want to go home.” 

"Pray, have you a reason for this behaviour?” 
asked his grandmother acidly. 

"Yes, dame.” 

"What is it?” 

Huette glanced at him guiltily, her eyes full of 
anxiety. 

"What is it?” repeated Dame Mathilde. 

Matthieu looked steadily and meaningly at Huette, 
who dropped her eyelids ; then he gave a short laugh, 
and turned on his heel. Dame Mathilde seized him 
by the shoulder. 

"What are you doing? What is the matter?” asked 
Dame Yolande, coming towards them. 

"Is this your doing, madame?” cried Dame Mathilde 
furiously. 


A Romance of Old Wars 15 

“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Dame 
Yolande. 

The guests began to gather round, listening and 
questioning. Dame Marguerite approached, breath- 
ing heavily. 

“What is it?” 

“What has happened?” 

“Refuses to dance with her!” 

“But why?” 

“Is that it?” cried Madame Yolande. 

“Matthieu, will you obey me?” cried Dame Mathilde. 

“No.” 

“I’ll have you whipped,” she cried. 

“But why — why won’t he ” panted Dame Mar- 

guerite, looking bewildered. 

“It’s easy to understand why I” cried Dame Yolande 
indiscreetly. “Huette danced out of step.” 

“Oh, oh!” screamed Huette, bursting into tears. 
“I didn’t. I — I — take me home ! I won’t marry him ! 
I want to go home! I won’t marry him! I won’t! 
I won’t !” 

“Maitre Gerard !” cried Dame Mathilde to the tutor. 

“Madame.” 

She pointed at Matthieu. 

“Take him away and whip him.” 

Matthieu flushed angrily. 

“I’d rather be whipped than dance again with her,” 
he cried. 

“Go! go!” cried Dame Mathilde. 

Dame Marguerite looked in dismay from the old 
chatelaine to Dame Yolande, who was trying not to 
laugh, and then at Huette, who was sobbing wildly. 


1 6 A Romance of Old Wars 


“I think,” said Dame Mathilde sternly, “that the 
dance has overtired Madame Huette. In my opinion 
it would be well for her to retire to bed.” 

Dame Marguerite beamed with relief. 

“To be sure,” she wheezed — “to be sure.” 

The next morning the guests departed, and in the 
afternoon the Sieur and Dame de Richecour also 
left Chatelfors. Huette slipped away, and ran up to 
the battlements to watch them ride through the vil- 
lage and across the plain. The chateau was built on 
a spur of the hill which rose high behind it, and was 
protected to the fore by the two courts of the outer 
and inner ward ; on each side the fall was sheer. Be- 
yond the great gateway the road descended, winding 
to the plain. 

The sun dazzled her, burning her forehead, and she 
put up both hands to shade her eyes; her red hair 
was ruffled, and her long blue sleeves fluttered in the 
wind. Far below she saw the little company riding 
along the winding white road. Silence was already 
between her and them. She knew by the turn of 
their heads that her father and mother, riding in front 
of the party, were talking together, but the only sound 
that reached her was that of the steady lifting and 
planting of the horses’ hoofs. 

Further and further they went into the distance, 
until, straining her eyes, she could no longer discern 
anything upon the road ; then she turned, and, blinded 
with tears, stumbling over her long gown, she found 
her way along the corridors to her room. She sank 
on to a low stool, and, bowing her head on to her 
hands, she .sobbed passionately. And here Barbe 


A Romance of Old Wars 17 

found her, half an hour later, and called out in shrill 
surprise : 

“Eh, she is here! The little dame! Holy Virgin! 
and crying! 

“Ah, no, no!” she coaxed. “You mustn’t cry. You 
are a great lady, and rich, and well married!” 

“But I want to go home!” cried Huette suddenly 
and sharply. 

Dame Mathilde was passing the door at that mo- 
ment, and she paused on the threshold. 

“If you do not take care,” she said severely, “you 
will be sent home.” 

Huette looked abashed. 

Barbe, curtseying, hinted to the child with little 
pushes to rise. 

“Come,” said Dame Mathilde more gently, “you 
would do better to accompany me to the chapel, in- 
stead of sitting here doing nothing. You must learn 
to say your hours, my child, and to cultivate a habit 
of prayer. The chatelaine of Chatelfors cannot fulfil 
her position worthily unless she is pious and constant 
in her devotions.” 

“Yes, dame,” said Huette submissively; and she 
rose to obey, feeling impressed by the importance of 
her future state. 

Dame Mathilde led the way along the corridor and 
down a flight of steps ; she lifted the latch of the heavy, 
iron-clamped door, and entered the chapel. Offering 
holy water to Huette, she genuflected stiffly. Then, 
advancing to the altar steps, she knelt down, her 
illuminated “Book of Hours” lying open before her on 
a red velvet cushion. 


1 8 A Romance of Old Wars 

Huette, awestruck, knelt behind her. 

Dame Mathilde began to read aloud. Her voice 
was low and measured. She knelt absolutely still, her 
black draperies lying in straight folds about her rigid 
figure. 

Presently she turned her pale wrinkled face towards 
the child. 

“Come here,” she said. 

Huette gathered up her blue skirt, and, scrambling 
to her feet, went to kneel beside her. 

“Say the responses after me,” said Dame Mathilde. 

The child glanced at her with apprehension, and 
nervously twisted her fingers together as she hesitated 
over the Latin words. 

From that day Huette's training as a chatelaine 
began. 

She was brought up to feel that her only claim to 
consideration was as mistress of Chatelfors and as 
Matthieu’s wife. The only ambition allowed her was 
that of being worthy to bear Matthieu’s name. He 
was the centre of all interest ; it was taken for granted 
that she was to adore him as his mother and grand- 
mother adored him, that she was to yield to him 
absolutely, and ask for nothing in return but the 
privilege of some day being his wife. At first she 
rebelled. She was jealous, and she struggled against 
the surrender demanded of her, passionately assert- 
, ing that she was as good as he was. Their daily lives 
in the chateau were very separate, but whenever they 
came into contact she would meet him with bitter, 
scornful words, futilely trying to hurt in return for her 
own hurt. However, the mere fact that Matthieu’s 


A Romance of Old Wars 19 

all-importance was taken as a matter of course van- 
quished her, and by degrees her jealousy took another 
form. 

Matthieu was indifferent to her. For days after 
the dance he had not forgiven her, and by the time 
his anger had worn itself out they had got into the 
habit of quarrelling. He did not dislike her, but her 
shrewishness was uncongenial, and he avoided her. 
Huette now combated his indifference with the same 
sore jealousy with which she had disputed his superi- 
ority. It stung her to the same uncontrollable tart- 
ness of speech, which only bored him, while she would 
repent her words as fiercely as she had spoken them. 
She would blame herself bitterly and excuse him, 
then excuse herself and blame him. 

“It’s his fault. He treats me as if I were nothing! 
I would rather he hated me,” she would think. 

“It is small wonder that Matthieu has nothing to 
say to you,” remarked Dame Yolande one day, as she 
sat cuddling her monkey and stroking its wrinkled 
forehead with one finger. “Why don’t you take 
trouble to please him?” 

Huette was sitting beside her, spinning. She 
snapped her thread, and pushed her wheel from her 
with a clatter. 

“I am sure I don’t care whether he has anything to 
say to me or not!” she cried passionately. 

“Don’t be a little fool!” said Dame Yolande, and* 
she stopped stroking the monkey to slap Huctte’s 
cheek. 

“Oh, saints preserve us!” she added impatiently. 
“For the love of Heaven, don’t cry! Your eyes will 


20 


A Romance of Old Wars 


be unsightly for the rest of the day, and you will ruin 
your complexion !” 

“You must learn to bridle your tongue, Huette,” 
said Dame Mathilde gravely, raising her head and 
letting her embroidery fall on to her lap. 

“I want to go home !” cried Huette, clenching her 
fists. 

“If you are sent home,’' remarked Dame Mathilde, 
“you will be sorry for it all your life. It is a humilia- 
tion that cannot be forgotten”; and Huette hung her 
head. 

As she spoke Dame Yolande suddenly flung the 
monkey on to the floor, started up, and swept from the 
room. Huette gazed after her in astonishment, and 
then glanced inquiringly at Dame Mathilde. 

“Come here,” said the old chatelaine. “Kneel down 
and put out your tongue.” 

Huette obeyed, and Dame Mathilde pricked it with 
her needle, and then sent her crying to the chapel. 


CHAPTER III 


When Matthieii reached the age of fourteen he was 
sent to serve as esquire in the household of his fuedal 
lord, the Count de Villerou. 

Till then he remained at Chatelfors, domineering 
over his mother and the servants, fighting and fra- 
ternizing with the village boys, squabbling with 
Huette, and defying his grandmother and his tutor. 

He was impressionable, impetuous, and passionately 
self-willed. 

“He seems to think that life is all romance, and that 
the world was made for him to do as he likes with,” 
grumbled the Sieur Nicol de Tournay, who was visit- 
ing the chateau. He was the next heir should Mat- 
thieu not live, and managed the estate during the 
Sieur’s minority, spending a few weeks at the chateau 
from time to time. 

He was a heavily-built, keen-eyed man, with long 
flat cheeks and a protruding lower lip, divided across 
the centre by a dry crack. 

He was sitting at the top of the table; Dame 
Mathilde and Dame Yolande, on either side of him, 
faced each other, and Maitre Paul, the secretary, at 
the farther end was gathering up the accounts which 
they had been balancing. 

“Matthieu is too much master here,” continued the 
Sieur. “It is high time that he should go away and 
submit to a little discipline. He is glad to go, too.” 


21 


22 A Romance of Old Wars 

“He is restless/’ said Dame Mathilde. 

“Well, he is growing up/’ remarked the Sieur. 
“He wants to stretch his limbs. That’s natural 
enough.” 

“But he’s not so very wilful !” cried Dame Yolande. 
“He’s high-spirited, but there’s no harm in that. And 
he is very chivalrous. He does quarrel with Huette, 
but I am sure I don’t wonder, for her tongue is sharp 
enough to provoke a saint.” 

Dame Mathilde was regarding the Sieur de Tour- 
nay thoughtfully. 

“Yes,” she said, ignoring Dame Yolande, “Mat- 
thieu is growing up.” 

Dame Yolande glanced at her sharply. 

“The marriage might take place before he goes,” 
said the old chatelaine, and she sent for Matthieu. 

“How like his father!” she thought as the boy 
entered. 

“He is charming!” murmured Dame Yolande, look- 
ing at him with affectionate satisfaction. 

Matthieu was very tall and slim, with straight black 
hair and twinkling black eyes; his mouth was wide 
and unconsciously pathetic, his jaw square and deli- 
cate. He was sumptuously dressed in a flowered 
brocade. Approaching the table, he stood with his 
hand resting upon it. 

“You sent for me, dame?” 

As he spoke a sudden smile transformed his pathetic 
lips with a charm all the more irresistible because it 
was unexpected. 

“Yes, Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde. “We have 
been talking of your departure, and we have thought 


A Romance of Old Wars 23 

It would be well to delay it a little, so that your mar- 
riage might take place before you leave us.” 

The smile vanished from Matthieu’s face, and he 
did not reply at once. 

“Eh, dame,” he said presently, “surely it will be 
time enough when I come back.” 

Dame Yolande gave a little laugh, which brought a 
faint blush to the old chatelaine’s cheeks. 

“Why not now?” said Dame Mathilde sharply. 
“You are both growing up, and I see no reason 
against it.” 

“It would delay my departure,” he said. 

“That is no reason.” 

“It is to me,” he cried angrily. 

“It is a mere child’s excuse,” she said. “Absurd!” 

“I will not delay my departure for Villerou by one 
day,” he said. 

“Very well; the marriage shall take place the day 
after to-morrow, and we will have no guests nor 
festivities.” 

Matthieu looked at her for a moment. His eye- 
brows were raised; the lids half hid his eyes, and the 
twinkle in^them had changed to an angry glitter; the 
lines of his mouth had hardened into obstinacy. Stick- 
ing his thumbs into his belt, he crossed to the fireplace, 
and with his foot pushed one of the logs, making the 
sparks fly up the chimney. Then he turned round. 

“I will marry Huette when I come back.” 

“But why not now?” 

“Because I don’t want to !” 

Dame Mathilde pressed her wrinkled lips together. 

“You are bound in honour to marry her,” she said. 


24 


A Romance of Old Wars 


“But not now!” 

“Mon Dieu! what difference can it make to you 
whether you marry her now or later?” she cried. 

“I will not be forced to marry before 1 want to,” 
he said. ‘‘If I choose to wait till I am sixty I 
shall.” 

“Great heavens !” she cried, losing her temper. 
“Do you think Huette is to be treated like that, just 
because you are as self-willed as a mule ? Why, wars 
have been fought for a less matter! Where is your 
chivalry? Where is your sense of honour? You to 
aspire to knighthood, and to be ready to break your 
word for a mere foolish caprice!” 

“But I did not give my word.” 

“It was given in your name.” 

“Well, and I tell you I will keep it, but not now.” 

“But why not?” she insisted. 

“Because I will not !” he cried. “Cordieu I what 
do I want with a wife now? I have been nowhere, 
I have seen nothing, and a knight who is married is 
only half a knight. Who has ever gained glory when 
tied to a wife ? I am going to win my spurs ! I am 
going to look for adventures, and unless Huette will 
ride with me to the world’s end I will not marry her 
now ! If she would — but she ! she only wants to stay 
at home, and if I should cross the next field she’d call 
me back. She cares for nothing that I care for ! She 
shall have no right to call me back,” he said proudly. 

“Oh !” cried Dame Yolande. “Don’t you see that 
if Huette were pretty and good-tempered he’d marry 
her? But she is plain and a little shrew! Now, you 
know she is!” 


A Romance of Old Wars 


Dame Mathilde flushed angrily, but she again 
ignored her daughter-in-law. 

“But can’t you understand what I am saying to 
you?” she cried to Matthieu. “Go, I tell you, go — 
go your own way, like the headstrong young fool that 
you are, but marry Huette first. It is due to her to 
give her your name and her right position as your 
wife!” 

“No,” he cried. 

“I say you shall.” 

The Sieur de Tournay interfered. 

“Let there be an end to this,” he said, and he sent 
for Huette. 

“Ah, Huette! Come here,” he said, rubbing his 
hands thoughtfully together as her small figure, 
dressed in dark blue, appeared in the doorway, curtsey- 
ing. She glanced from him to where Matthieu was 
standing by the fire, and then her look passed from 
Dame Yolande’s half-laughing, half-resentful face to 
Dame Mathilde’s indignant one. 

She approached obediently. 

“Your marriage with Matthieu is to take place 
the day after to-morrow at eight o’clock,” said the 
Sieur. “See to your preparations, and go to confes- 
sion.” 

The colour rushed into Huette’s small face. 

“Yes, sir,” she said shyly. 

“Come here, my child,” said Dame Mathilde, and, 
clasping Huette’s hand, she pulled the girl towards her 
and kissed her with emotion. 

The Sieur rose, and gallantly taking Huette’s other 
hand, he raised it to his lips. 


26 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Madame de Chatelfors, may I be the first to wish 
you every happiness?” he said. 

But Huette was looking anxiously towards Mat- 
thieu. He met her look with an unrelenting stare, 
and, turning on his heel, he went out of the room. 
Outside the door he paused, and swore under his 
breath. 

“But I will not,” he said. “No, I zvill not.” 

He ran upstairs, two steps at a time, along a cor- 
ridor, and flung open the door of a small room, where 
Joseph, his valet and tailor, was at work. The man 
was sitting on a bench beside the slit-like window ; his 
small, meagre figure, hunched over his work, was 
dark against the evening light. A table before him 
was piled with stuff, together with his big scissors 
and the elaborate drawing of a costume. 

He struggled to his feet as Matthieu entered, 
grumbling in an undertone. 

“Interfering with me now, just as I was piecing 
this together ! Why can’t he let me work undis- 
turbed? I shall let the edges slip, and it will be all 
the trouble in the world to get them right again !” 

Matthieu broke into laughter. 

“Now, don’t grumble, Joseph! This is the first 
time I have interrupted you to-day, and I must speak 
to you.” 

“Yes, monsieur”; but the quick, shifting eyes were 
searching for a fragment of stuff that had fallen on to 
the floor. 

“Come, listen to me!” cried Matthieu impatiently. 
“It’s no good saying, 'Yes, monsieur,’ and thinking of 
something else all the time.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 27 

The tailor sighed. 

‘T am listening, Sieur,” he said reluctantly. 

“Joseph, I am going away to-night.” 

“To-night!” cried the valet in dismay. “But noth- 
ing is ready, and this one — the best of all — is barely 
begun.” 

“No matter! I am going to-night! You must take 
just what we can carry on two horses. The rest must 
be sent afterwards.” 

“Afterwards? but is monsieur going unattended?” 

“I am going to take you, idiot!” 

“And monsieur starts to-night!” he repeated so dis- 
consolately that Matthieu laughed again. 

Then, suddenly becoming grave, the boy said: 

“Look here, Joseph : no one knows I am going, and 
you are to say nothing to anyone.” 

“But ” 

“But! but! How dare you say ‘but’? Haven’t I 
told you what I am going to do?” 

“Monsieur-eu-eur ” 

“Don’t you understand ?” cried Matthieu. “You are 
to be ready as soon as it is dark, and not to say a 
word to anyone!” 


CHAPTER IV 


Spring was beginning, but the days were still short 
and cold, and it was little after six o’clock when Mat- 
thieu rode away through the village with Joseph. 

They went slowly till out of earshot of the chateau. 
The village was quiet, but Nicol the blacksmith was 
still at work at his forge, and the clang of his hammer 
rang through the silence. 

Just outside the village they met Jehan the shepherd, 
his flock of sheep scuffling along the road all round 
him. He was a meagre youth with bow legs; his 
mouth always hung open, wavering between foolish 
laughter and disconsolate gaping. 

He stood still to stare at Matthieu. 

“He! he! he!” he sniggered, pointing at him. 

“Get out of the way, you fool!” cried Matthieu 
angrily. 

“It’s the Sieur!” cried Jehan, coming after them, 
and leaving the sheep huddled together by the hedge. 
“He ! he ! he ! It’s the Sieur.” 

Matthieu turned round and struck at him with his 
whip. Jehan stood still and howled, and Matthieu 
urged his horse into a gallop along the flat road. 

The night was clear and still, and presently the 
moon rose, seeming to hang below the deep, star- 
pierced atmosphere. The ground before them, the 
trees and grass that they passed, shone luminously; 

28 


A Romance cf Old Wars 29 

the hills on their left were tenderly modelled and 
unsubstantial in the pale cold light. 

Matthieu did not speak, and Joseph dared not ad- 
dress him. Nothing was to be heard but the occa- 
sional distant barking of dogs, and the sound of their 
horses’ hoofs. From time to time Matthieu put his 
beast to a gallop, but the roads were bad, and he was 
generally forced to go at a moderate pace. 

They passed two or three silent villages, rousing 
the shepherds’ dogs to a fury of barking. 

The night advanced. 

At last they saw a dense cluster of irregular out- 
lines against the sky. 

“Villerou,” said Matthieu, and galloped towards it. 

At the town gate he blew his horn. He was ques- 
tioned, and he replied quickly and intolerantly. The 
gate was opened to him, and he rode through the 
narrow streets, his horse stumbling against rubbish 
and splashing through slush. 

The tall crooked houses seemed to be lurching over 
him. As he passed he noticed huddled figures crouch- 
ing in doorways. He met the watch, and, replying 
to their challenge, he asked the way to the cha- 
teau. 

“At this hour?” They eyed him doubtfully. “It 
is past midnight.” 

At the chateau gate he blew his horn again and 
listened. He fancied he heard a distant sound of 
shouting and singing, but no one came. 

He sounded once more. Then he heard voices near 
at hand. Bars grated. Someone shouted a question 
from above. 


30 A Romance of Old Wars 

“It is I, the Sieur of Chatelfors!” cried Matthieu. 

“At this hour?” 

“Cordieii ! yes !” cried Matthieu impatiently. “Is 
that all you can say in this town? IVe come to see 
the Count.” 

The bolts jarred, the drawbridge fell slowly and 
creaking, and Matthieu rode into the courtyard. 

A couple of men with torches approached him, the 
flare casting fleeting, distorted shadows upon the 
pavement. The chateau surrounded him, massive and 
silent, dark against the cold night sky. A solitary 
man-at-arms was pacing the battlements. 

As Matthieu dismounted he thought again that he 
heard a distant sound of shouting. 

“Will monsieur come this way?” said one of the 
men ; and Matthieu followed him across the yard, and 
into a vast empty hall, the torch lighting the walls 
and straw-littered floor in patches as they went, and 
driving the darkness up to the ceiling and into the 
angles. 

They passed through other rooms with cold blue- 
gray windows, and as they advanced the hoarse voices 
sounded nearer and nearer. At last they came to a 
room where servants were waiting: one sat nodding 
sleepily upon a bench ; another lay snoring on the floor, 
his hand under his head; and a boy was huddled up 
against the fireplace, also asleep. 

A couple of men were sitting by the table drinking 
and staring in front of them in sullen silence. 

A doorway faced them, the chinks outlining it with 
light, and beyond this sounded the clamour of singing 
and rough talk and laughter. 


A Romance of Old Wars 31 

The servant stuck his torch in a niche, and cross- 
ing to this door, he flung it open. 

Matthieu hesitated on the threshold. 

The great banqueting-hall was lit with torches, 
which seemed not to dispel the darkness, but to tear 
it into shreds. 

Round the table sat gorgeously-clad men, leaning 
across it, clutching at tankards, thumping it with their 
fists, spilling the wine, their hot red faces and excited 
eyes made grotesque by the incessant wavering 
shadows. 

The white-haired Count de Villerou, blunt-featured 
and blear-eyed, paused, his goblet at his lips, and 
stared at the slim boy in the doorway. Matthieu was 
pale ; the shadows in his eye-sockets concealed his 
eyes. 

He stepped forward, and knelt on one knee. 

“Monseigneur, I am Matthieu, Sieur de Chatelfors.’' 

The Count’s jaw fell. 

“Tete-Dieu!” he cried. “Have I been drinking 
here a whole week ? I — I — I — I must have been very 
drunk — not — to notice — the sun rise and set — seven 
times !” 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the company. 

“I have come here a week sooner than I ought, be- 
cause — because Dame Mathilde and I have quarrelled, 
monseigneur,” said Matthieu hurriedly. 

“Eh?” The Count stared at him. “A week soo— 

he says a week Ho ! ho ! ho ! I am not so drunk 

after all ! Ha ! ha !” he laughed. “Why, the cellar ’d 
have been empty !” 

Then, pulling himself together: 


32 A Romance of Old Wars 

“You young dog! you’ve run away! Ha! ha! 
What did you do that for?” 

“Monseigneur, my grandmother wished me to 
marry, and 1 will not yet! I want to win my spurs 
first,” cried Matthieu, rising. - 

“Bravo!” cried the men. “Bravo!” 

“Ho! ho! ho! What did you do that for? I’ve 
been married — three or four times,” cried the Count. 
“I forget whether — it is three or four times.” 

“Ha ! ha ! Madame la Comtesse is your third wife, 
monseigneur.” 

“Ah ! Marie, Constance, Isabelle ! What’s her 
name? My memory’s bad nowadays,” cried the 
Count. “Can’t remember even the men I’ve killed.” 

He was gazing at Matthieu; suddenly he pointed. 

“By St. Anne !” he cried eagerly, and articulating 
distinctly. “Maitre Giovanni ! here’s a head for you ! 
You’ve come in the nick of time, young man.” 

A dark, thin Italian leant forward, eagerly scanning 
the boy’s face. 

“Si ! si ! it is an angel’s head ! Heaven has sent the 
youth !” 

Matthieu looked bewildered. 

“It’s for my tomb,” said the Count; and suddenly, 
dashing down his goblet with a bang, he started to 
his feet. 

“Come — come and look at it! Tete-Dieu! It is 
such a tomb that all the world will ask to see it !” 
He strode to the door. “Hola! bring a torch to the 
chapel !” 

Only Matthieu and the Italian followed him. 

Two of the company rose, but one sat suddenly 


A Romance of Old Wars 33 

down again, and remained gazing in surprise at the 
table, and the other subsided on to the floor, and sat 
there shaking with laughter. The rest, stupefied with 
drink, stayed where they were, quarrelling, laughing, 
shouting, singing. 

The Count strode along the passage, and opened 
the chapel door. 

The strange quiet of night and a sense of remote- 
ness thrilled the boy as they entered. The little light 
glimmered before the high altar ; the painted windows 
looked black; the silence seemed personified in the 
crucifix. 

A recess in the wall was curtained off. 

The Italian went forward and drew the curtain to 
one side, revealing a mass of ghostly white. He 
beckoned to the servant, who approached and held the 
torch high. 

Matthieu drew in his breath with a sudden half- 
uttered exclamation as he saw the great white marble 
tomb, dinted with pale shadows. 

On the top lay a figure of the Count, rigid in 
repose, his mailed feet resting upon a sleeping dog, his 
cotte-d'armes lying in straight folds, his gauntleted 
hands together, as if in prayer, his shield and his 
sword beside him. 

An angel knelt at each side of the three corners, but 
the fourth was missing. On the sides of the tomb 
were delicate bas-reliefs of the Annunciation, Nativity, 
and Crucifixion. 

“A — h!’’ ejaculated the Count, red-faced with drink, 
rough and vigorous. “It’s like me — eh ? That’s me — 
my very self! Eh?” 


CHAPTER V 


The next day the Sieur Nicol de Tournay arrived 
at Villerou in pursuit of Matthieu, but the old Count 
refused to see him. 

'Tell him to go to the devil !” he cried. “The boy 
is to stay here.” 

But the Sieur dismounted, and demanded admit- 
tance with a curse. 

“I will not stir until I have seen the Count,” he 
said; and the servant reluctantly returned to the old 
man. 

“I say the boy is to stay here,” shouted the Count. 
“If you bring me another message, I will have you 
thrashed.” 

“My grandfather told Nicol de Tournay to go to 
the devil,” remarked Bertrand de Villerou, as he 
strolled in the trellised garden with the Count’s young 
wife. “And the worthy Nicol insisted on seeing my 
grandfather. A neat retort, upon my honour !” 

“For shame!” cried Madame Marie; and Matthieu, 
who was posing, kneeling on one knee in the sculptor’s 
studio, heard them laugh. He sprang up to look out 
of the window. 

“Who are they?” he asked. 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and muttered 
something about “Patience”; then he, too, went to 
the window, and stood behind the boy. 

“That is the young Contessa,” he said, speaking 
34 


A Romance of Old Wars 35 

with a foreign accent and in short sentences. “She 
in the green dress — she is the Count’s third wife. 
She is -gay. She loves dancing and gaming. Every 
night there are festivities. But the Count — he sits 
in the hall and drinks; he thinks only of his tomb. 
One day he said to madame that she should have a 
tomb as beautiful as his — to be placed opposite to 
his; but madame frowned. Ha! hal” he laughed 
softly. “That man with the long face and sleepy eyes 
is the young Count. That lady in the blue dress, 
with the yellow hair, is Madame Annette, his sister. 
And that priest with the pale, rough hair — that is 
Maitre Olivier, the musician. And that is the jester — 
that little man who sits on the bank, near to those two 
gardeners.’’ 

As he spoke the jester looked up at the window, 
and, suddenly throwing back his head, laughed long 
and silently. 

“I’m going down to them,” said Matthieu, turning 
round abruptly; but finding himself face to face with 
the clay image of himself, he stopped to gaze at it. 

“Tiens!” he exclaimed, much interested. “Is that 
me? Am I really like that?” 

“It is like,” said the Italian thoughtfully. “Yes, 
it is like. But, holy saints I” he cried, “how is it pos- 
sible to do that mouth ? Silent, and it is sad — tragic ! 
It could not smile! Oh no! Then, eccol he laughs! 
The sadness has vanished ! The merriment belongs, 
like life, to his lips ! It is astonishing, bewildering.” 

“Cordieu! I should like to make things like that,” 
cried Matthieu eagerly. “Give me some of that stuff ; 
show me how you do it.” 


36 A Romance of Old Wars 

For a week Matthieu thought of nothing but 
modelling; then, hearing Maitre Olivier play upon the 
fiddle, he abandoned clay, and spent hours in trying 
to subdue discords to his touch. Then he took to 
composing verses and singing them, then to playing 
chess, then back to modelling once more, then paint- 
ing, then tennis, hawking, tilting. 

His duties as esquire amounted to little more than 
waiting upon Bertrand at dinner, and being in readi- 
ness should the young Count want his companionship. 
But Bertrand was lethargic, and only occupied with 
sentimental adventures, and Matthieu was almost as 
independent as at Chatelfors. Also, as long as he 
was posing to Maitre Giovanni the old Count heaped 
him with favours, and although, as soon as the angel 
was complete, the old man seemed to forget the boy’s 
very existence, Matthieu still kept his privileges. 

Once or twice during that year it occurred to Mat- 
thieu to wonder about Huette. 

“What did she say when she found I had gone?'" 
he thought. “No one has ever told me that.” 

“Cordieu ! I’ll go and find out,” he decided one day ; 
and he went to look for Bertrand de Villerou. 

“Monseigneur,” he said, “I want to go to Chatel- 
fors.” 

Bertrand was singing to Madame Marie as she 
bent over her embroidery frame; he frowned at the 
interruption. 

“Go, then, if you want to,” he said impatiently ; and 
within an hour Matthieu was on his way. 

It was evening as he rode in at the chateau gates. 
Fie dismounted, and ran up the steps and into the hall. 


A Romance of Old Wars 37 

No one was there, but even as he glanced round one 
of the doors opened, and Huette came in. 

“Oh!” she cried, seeing him. “Matthieu!” she ex- 
claimed in amazement. 

He laughed. 

“Yes, it is I.” And, advancing towards her, he 
lifted her hand to his lips. 

His quick look scanned her small, vivacious face 
framed by her beautiful red hair. Her thin lips, 
parted by her protruding teeth, wavered into a nervous 
smile of astonishment. 

“When did you come?” she asked hurriedly, feeling 
his eyes upon her. “Have you come to stay? Does 
anyone know you have arrived?” Then suddenly 
taking courage, she lifted her eyes to his face. “You 
have changed,” she said. 

“In what way?” he asked, smiling. 

“Eh I” she said tartly. “Your features are the sarqe, 
so I suppose it is that you have grown up; and Em 
sure it was time.” 

“You have not changed,” he remarked. 

Huette pulled her hand out of his, and walked to 
the window. She mounted the steps leading up to the 
embrasure, and sat down on the window-seat, her 
hands in her lap. She was dressed in dull green, and 
in the twilight it looked almost black, while the light 
of the sunset gleamed on her bright hair. 

Matthieu followed her, and stood with one foot on 
the steps, leaning his arm upon his knee. 

“1 want to know what you have been doing,” he 
said. 

“I?” she cried. “You know what I used to do 


38 A Romance of Old Wars 

when you were here. Well, I have been doing the 
same ever since. The things that mark my life are 
the things that don’t happen,” she said bitterly. 

Matthieu’s eyes flashed eagerly. 

“Huette,” he said, “do you really want things to 
happen? Would you like to come away, and see new 
places, new people? Would you like to throw away 
your distafif and needle, and break those endless 
threads that you spend your days in pulling in and 
out of stuff, and get outside these walls — out into the 
world, where anything may happen?” 

His bright eyes searched her face, but hers refused 
to respond to his look. 

“I don’t want to go and seek adventures, if that is 
what you mean,” she said sharply. “I ask for noth- 
ing extraordinary.” 

He gave the short, displeased laugh that was like 
his grandmother’s. 

“There you make a mistake,” he said lightly. “The 
more we ask for, the more we get.” 

She made no reply, but after a moment she said : 

“You have been away for a year.” 

“A year? Ma foi ! it has not seemed so much.” 

“The attractions of Villerou must be great,” she 
said acidly. 

“Oh yes,” he replied carelessly. “It is a pleasant 
life — plenty of good company, coming and going; 
plenty to see and do.” 

“That is just the difference between you and me,” 
she said. “You did not know a year could be so short. 
I did not know it could be so long. But you are 
selfish ! You care nothing for me.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 39 

“Have I not come to see you?’’ he asked indignantly. 
“Am I not here now?” 

“After a year!” she cried. 

“Well, yes, after a year,” he said. “Do you expect 
a man to be leashed to his betrothed’s girdle? You 
are unreasonable, Huette. The world reaches far be- 
yond the range of your sight; and, after all, a year 
is a short time out of a life.” 

“A short time ! Mon Dieu ! how am I to live 
through a life of such short years?” she cried. “Per- 
haps you haven’t discovered that each year is made of 
months and weeks, and days and nights, and hours 
and minutes, and each minute has to be lived through ! 
Oh, you — how should you know that? You spend 
your days in gay company, and in the stir and bustle 
of amusing yourself; you pay no heed to the passing 
of time. But I am not in that gay company ; / am not 
in that stir of amusement. I am left to wait here till 
it is your good pleasure to remember my existence. 
And then, because I say the time is long, you call me 
unreasonable. Unreasonable! I tell you, I ask for 
nothing extraordinary 1” 

Matthieu straightened himself and stepped up be- 
side her. He stood with his back to the window and 
she could barely discern his features. 

“What do you want?” he asked sternly. 

She looked straight in front of her ; her small, pas- 
sionate face became tremulous, but she said nothing. 

“Why don't you answer?” he said. “What do you 
ask for?” 

Still she said nothing. 

“I repeat, you are unreasonable,” he cried. “You 


40 A Romance of Old Wars 

call me selfish because I, being a man, have gone out 
to learn manliness — because I have left you with my 
mother and grandmother, who love you, and in my 
home, which I bid you make yours ! Selfish, do you 
call me ? I only called you unreasonable. You would 
have me stay at home to keep you company — to limit 
my interests to yours, to sit beside you while you sew, 
to stroll with you when you would walk — in fact, never 
to leave your side ! Upon my honour, I believe you 
would be jealous of the saints themselves, if I were 
to die before you ; and I am certain your spirit would 
walk, in order to call me selfish, should I outlive you. 
You want me to give up all that man is made for, all 
that makes life good, and then you say you ask for 
nothing extraordinary.” 

“Why have you come back?” she asked bitterly. 

“Why? I have told you,” he said. “I came to see 
you.” 

“Have you come to stay?” Her voice was a little 
uncertain. 

He looked at her deliberately. 

“No,” he said. 

She drew in her breath, and pressed her hands 
tightly together. 

“You are going back to Villerou?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“I am going now,” he said, lifting her hand to his 
lips. “Au revoir, Huette.” 

“But Dame Yolande ” 


“Tell her I am pressed for time,” he cried, stepping 
down from the embrasure of the window and crossing 


A Romance of Old Wars 41 

the hall. At the door he turned to wave his hand to 
her. 

Huette leaned back against the dark panelling, her 
hands resting limply upon the seat each side of her. 
She listened to his voice in the courtyard coming and 
going; she heard the stamping and irregular tread 
of a restive horse ; she heard the departing clatter of 
hoofs, fading into silence. 

Then Huette slid down on to her knees, and, lean- 
ing her forehead against the seat between her out- 
stretched arms, she cried aloud, her whole form 
shaken by long-drawn sobs. 


CHAPTER VI 


One night at the end of summer, seven years later, 
Jehan the shepherd was watching his sheep in a fenced 
meadow below the village. 

The castle rose behind him like a dense shadow 
against the hill ; the road lay winding on his right 
towards the west. He was sitting with his knees up 
to his chin, and his hands clasped round them, count- 
ing his flock over and over again. The grass was 
dark and glistening, and the sheep were pale gray by 
the light of a waning moon. 

“One, two, three, and another with their faces this 
way; one, two, three, and three lying under the tree. 
He, he!” he sniggered, rubbing his chin against his 
knees. “One and three, and three and one, and one, 
and one bleating, and one coughing. He, he I” 

The dog beside him pricked up its ears and growled, 
then sat up, its hair bristling. 

“A wolf,” said Jehan. He listened intently, his 
mouth open. “It’s far away. It’s going. It’s gone.” 

The dog lay down again, its nose along its paws. 

“Ba-a-a!” cried Jehan, imitating the high, quaver- 
ing bleat of a lamb ; and as some of the sheep turned 
their heads towards him, he sniggered again. 

“Ba-a-a I ba-a-a I” he cried again and again, flinging 
himself flat on his back. “Ba-a-a !” 

The bell-wether raised its head, sounding its bell. 


42 


A Romance of Old Wars 43 

It rose on its knees and staggered to its feet, uttering 
short, throaty bleats. 

“Ba-a-a !” cried Jehan. 

The rest of the sheep became uneasy, and gathered 
round the wether with uplifted, questioning heads, and 
the whole flock, alert and tentative, approached the 
shepherd. 

“Ba-a-a!” he cried, and then shook with laughter 
as the sheep stopped short beside him, and hung their 
long, blank faces over his prostrate body. 

Then, all at once checking his laughter, he lay quite 
still, and nothing was to be heard but the snuffle 
of their breath and the occasional clang of the 
bell. 

“One and two, and three and four, and five and six, 
and one and one!” he murmured. “It’s cold, cold, 
cold. The dawn is near. 

“Two eyes, and two eyes, and two eyes I I see them 
all I Come and warm me. Come and warm me. The 
dawn is near.” 

In another quarter of an hour the birds were twit- 
tering, a pale light was spreading over the eastern sky, 
and the church bell began to ring. 

Jehan yawned, and flung up his arms, and the sheep 
tossed their heads, shying and backing against each 
other. 

That morning his brother, Jerome the Lean, came 
back to the village after seven years’ absence. 

He leant against the fence, and shouted to the 
shepherd : 

“Holalhol” 

Jehan sat up. 


44 A Romance of Old Wars 

Jerome got over the fence, and strode towards 
him. 

“Why,"’ cried Jehan, stupidly gaping, “it’s you!” 

A faint smile moved Jerome’s lips. 

“Yes, it is I.” 

The shepherd looked at him from head to foot, and 
then, shaking with mean laughter, pointed at his tat- 
tered shoes, at his stained black gown frayed at the 
edges, at his lank hair and his stubbly chin. 

“I have walked from Paris,” explained Jerome 
simply. 

“He’s walked from Paris! He, he! But why? 
Eh?” 

“I have come to ask for my freedom.” 

“What for?” 

“That I may be a priest.” 

“A priest! Jerome a priest! Jerome free! He, 
he, he!” 

Jehan doubled himself up and rocked to and fro. 

“Is mother alive?” asked Jerome. 

Jehan nodded. 

“And Jeannette?” 

“Married. One, two, three years ago” — counting 
on his fingers. 

“Whom has she married ?” 

“Jehan at the Sieur’s mill.” 

“Has she children?” 

The shepherd nodded vehemently, and held up his 
forefinger. 

“One. The Sieur was godfather, but it is dead now 
— he, he, he !” 

“Dead ! Jeannette’s baby dead !” 


A Romance of Old Wars 45 

Jerome put up both his hands, and ran his fingers 
through his hair till it stood on end. His anxious gray 
eyes were fixed on the ground. 

“Let us go home,” he said presently. 

The shepherd pointed to the sheep. 

“I must fill their troughs,” he said. 

Jerome strode back to the road and started towards 
the village. 

He was tall and carried his head a little thrown 
back. His cheeks were sunk in hollows below his 
cheek-bones, and his nose was aquiline. 

Smoke was rising from the thatched roofs as he 
walked on towards the mud-plastered huts. 

He approached the door of the third cottage, and 
knocked. There was no answer. 

He nodded gravely. 

“She’s grown deaf,” he said to himself, and knocked 
again louder. 

“Who’s there?” cried a shrill voice from within. 

Jerome’s hand shook as he pushed the door open. 
Smoke hung thickly under the ceiling, and made all 
the room hazy ; it poured out of the window, curling 
under the top of the window-frame. A little old 
woman was bending over the crackling fire, poking it 
with a twig. She looked up as he came in. 

“Who is it ?” she asked ; and Jerome nodded gravely 
again. 

“She is growing blind,” he said sadly. 

He crossed the room in two strides, and, kneeling 
down in front of her, he took hold of her worn 
hands. 

“Mother,” he said huskily. 


46 A Romance of Old Wars 

She gazed down at him speechless. Her shrivelled, 
toothless mouth quivered; her chin worked; the tears 
gathered in her dim eyes and rolled down her cheeks. 

He kissed her hands again and again. 

At last she said brokenly: baby is 

dead.” 

“I know ! I know !” he said. 

She stood there, her hands in his, crying helplessly. 

“To think that I should see my boy again ! I never 
thought Td see you again ! That I did not ! I never 
thought I’d see my boy again !” 

“I said I would come back,” he said gently. 

“You did — so you did ! But seven years — seven 
years come Michaelmas !” Her mouth worked silently 
as she tried to keep back her tears. “Jeannette’s baby 
died two weeks ago,” she said again. 

“Where is she?” asked Jerome. 

“Up at the mill. It’s far for me to go, and up-hill. 
Jean the miller came to fetch me, but when I got there 
it was lying on her lap dead ! Dame Huette went to 
give it medicine, but it died all the same.” 

Jerome nodded sadly and thoughtfully. 

“It was such a little thing,” she went on. “It 
weighed nothing, but Jeannette thought all the world 
of it.” 

Someone knocked at the door. Jerome started up 
and went to open it. A stout woman in a blue gown 
stood there. 

“Good-morning, Mere Nannette,” she began, and 
then cried, “Holy Virgin! it’s Jerome!” 

“Yes, it is I, good-wife.” 

The woman came into the room. Mere Nannette 


A Romance of Old Wars 47 

took no heed of her, but began to prepare food, mut- 
tering to herself : “He’s come back ! My boy’s come 
back !” 

“Well, to be sure!” cried the woman. “To think 
of seeing you! And where have you been all this 
time? I came to ask,” she went on, addressing Mere 
Nannette, “if you were taking bread to the ovens 
to-day, as I too am baking, and could take yours with 
mine.” She turned back to Jerome without waiting 
for a reply. “I’ve no doubt you’ve forgotten me — 
Madeleine, the blacksmith’s wife ? Memories are short 
when one’s away from home. Where have you been 
all this time?” 

“In Paris, good-wife.” 

“Paris! Holy Saints! And they say it is the big- 
gest city in the world! When did you arrive here? 
Why have you come away? Have you come to stay? 
Eh, it is close on seven years since you went 
off.” 

While she was speaking a young woman carrying 
on her head a tray of unbaked loaves covered with a 
cloth passed the open door. She stood still to stare; 
then, turning stiffly round, she called : 

“Josephine !” 

“Eh r 

A girl in a blue petticoat, also carrying unbaked 
loaves, came up to her. She pointed at Jerome’s tall 
figure in the doorway. 

“Ah ! they’ve seen you,” chattered Madeleine. “But 
I have the laugh of them this time. Eh!” she cried 
shrilly to the two girls, “who do you think is here? 
Here’s Jerome come back from Paris, which he knows 


48 A Romance of Old Wars 

as well as his own mother’s kitchen, having been there 
seven years, seeing all sorts of sights, and he’s come 
back to Chatelfors, with a tale of wonders such as you 
never heard !” 

Nicol the blacksmith, standing at the door of his 
forge, saw the two women enter the cottage, and he 
slouched down the lane to see what was doing at Mere 
Nannette’s. 

“What’s the matter here, wife?’’ he asked, looking 
in. “Eh! it’s Jerome,” he shouted. “By our Lady! 
that’s a good sight ! But, man, you’ve not grown 
stout! Hi!” he shouted down the lane, “here’s 
Jerome !” 

The news spread through the village fast, and in a 
few minutes the neighbors were crowding up to the 
door of the hut, a few contriving to push their way in. 

“Jerome — it’s Jerome !” 

“Mere Nannette’s Jerome come back!” 

“I never thought I’d see my boy again,” muttered 
the old woman, stirring a pot on the fire. 

“Here, don’t hustle! You can’t all get into the 
cottage ! Lord ! the walls would burst !” 

“Eh, neighbours!” quavered old Mere Nannette, 
“he’s had nothing to eat ! Let him break bread.” 

“Cordieu! you are starving him with your wel- 
come!” shouted Nicol. “Here, Jerome! Eat your 
fill ! Man, you look as if you hadn’t seen food 
for a week ! Get out of here, you women ! Go 
along !” 

Shoving, pulling, and commanding, Nicol cleared 
the room, and blocked up the doorway with his mass- 
ive form. 


A Romance of Old Wars 49 

The peasants laughed good-humouredly, and waited 
about the door in groups. 

''Dis done, Jerome!” cried a lad through the win- 
dow. '‘Have you got rich in Paris ?” 

“Rich!” echoed an old man scornfully. “Every- 
one’s rich in Paris !” 

“Is that so, Jerome?” 

“If you are going back I’ll go with you.” 

“All the houses are palaces, ain’t they ?” 

“Let him eat !” cried Mere Nannette, angrily push- 
ing them from the window with her feeble hands. 

“Here comes Pere Luc !” cried someone. 

“Run and tell him Jerome is here.” 

“Pere Luc is coming.” 

“Good-day, sir.” 

“Good-day.” 

“He’s here, sir. Here he is!” 

The crowd of peasants parted to make way for the 
old priest. Jerome appeared in the doorway, and 
knelt down to receive his blessing. 

“I never thought I’d see my boy again !” murmured 
Mere Nannette at the window, the tears running down 
her cheeks. “That I did not !” 

“I have come back to ask for my freedom,” said 
Jerome. 

“Ah !” said Pere Luc, thoughtfully rubbing his 
hands together, and sitting down on a bench that stood 
against the hut. 

“I wish — I hope — I would like to become a priest,” 
said Jerome humbly. 

There was a stir among the peasants. 

“Now the Holy Saints be praised!” cried Mere 


50 A Romance of Old Wars 

Nannette in her shrill, quavering voice. “Am I to 
be the mother of a priest ? Dear Mother of God, now 
I can die happy !” 

“God give you grace !” said the old priest mechan- 
ically. There was a silence. 

The peasants eyed Jerome half curiously, half 
shyly. 

“The Sieur must be a grown man now,” he said 
thoughtfully. 

“Eh!” cried Nicol. “And knighted a year ago! 
There were fine doings then! He’s a strong man 
too ! He’s like the old Sieur.” 

“And like him in temper!” said Madeleine. “He’s 
quick to anger, but he’s open-handed.” 

“And would you believe it !” cried a young woman, 
pressing forward eagerly. “He is not yet married 
to Madame Huette, and she’s twenty-two years old! 
and they say she is so jealous that she rages if he so 
much as looks at another woman, and when she thinks 
no one is by she cries ! Odette says she has seen her, 
and the Sieur de Richecour has sent messengers time 
after time to know when the marriage is to take place ; 
but the young Sieur only laughs and says, ‘Time 
enough’; and they say that Dame Mathilde is very 
angry with him, but Dame Yolande never liked the 
marriage, and would not be sorry if it never did take 
place.” 

“Dame Huette has a sharp tongue,” said Madeleine. 

“Wife, go home!” shouted Nicol. “You shall not 
talk ill of Madame Huette while I’m by, nor you, 
Christine! Do you hear?” he thundered, his face red 
with anger. 


A Romance of Old Wars 51 

The old priest’s head had sunk upon his breast, and 
he was dozing. 

“Can you tell me,” asked Jerome, “when the Sieur 
would be likely to receive me?” 

The peasants again glanced at him half shyly. One 
or two shrugged their shoulders. 

“Who can say?” 

“He rides long distances.” 

“He tilts. One can hear the horse’s hoofs when 
one passes the chateau !” 

“He plays tennis.” 

“And he makes music on a lute.” 

“Aye, and he has brought a musician from Villerou 
to be chapel-master at the chateau, and he teaches 
children to sing the High Mass.” 

“And a painter has come from Italy, and they say 
that he paints better than any man should — Heaven 
protect us! Such skill as that is more like the work 
of the Evil One.” 

Pere Luc snored gently, and the villagers turned to 
look at his bent, white head. 

“He is very old,” remarked Madeleine, jerking her 
head towards him. 

“Eh! What?” said the old man, looking up. “God 
bless you, Jerome.” 

Jerome again put up his hands, and ran his fingers 
through his hair till it stood on end as he looked from 
one to the other with perplexed, anxious eyes. 


CHAPTER VII 


Late on the following afternoon Jerome knocked 
at the door of Pere Luc’s cottage. The old man was 
sitting by the fire, his hands upon his knees, watching 
a pot of broth. He started, and cried with vague 
cordiality : '‘Ha ! Come in ! come in !” 

“It is I, sir,” said Jerome. 

“Ha ! sit down ! sit down !” 

Jerome seated himself on a three-legged stool. He 
did not know what to do with his legs, and slowly 
stretched them out before him, then, abashed at their 
length, he drew them back, scraping the dirty straw 
into a heap. 

“What can I do for you?” asked Pere Luc, as a 
matter of course. 

Jerome considered what to say. 

“I have been to the chateau three times,” he said, 
frowning, “and each time I have been sent away. I 
have not seen the Sieur.” 

“No?” asked Pere Luc. 

“No,” said Jerome, shaking his head. 

They remained silent for a minute, and then Jerome 
asked : 

“What shall I do?” 

“Do?” echoed the old man. “Do? Why not go 
again ?” He passed his hand over his forehead. “You 
should not be discouraged, you know, if God puts diffi- 
culties in your way. Persevere ! persevere !” 

52 


A Romance of Old Wars 53 

“But 

“Sir, may it not mean that I am not worthy?” 

“Eh?” Pere Luc looked surprised. 

Jerome fixed his troubled eyes upon the priest; he 
spoke slowly and disconnectedly. 

“Sir, I believe — I do believe, but my faith is unen- 
lightened. I question — I do not doubt the truth of my 
faith, but I am perplexed at every turn. Is it a devil 
that torments me with questions I can only half 
answer ? What good have I got from learning to ask ? 
The saints were prompt — generous, but I ! I hesitate, 
and ask. Why this? Wherefore that? I can guess 
what I ought to do, but I am not sure enough to do it ! 
Is that a sin ? How am I better for having spent years 
in learning and listening to teachers ? I am only more 
responsible — and they could not satisfy me. They 
showed me what to ask, but they could not answer me ! 
They have discovered to me that I am blind, but when 
they offer to heal me they only make the darkness seem 
greater. And yet, ought I to go back to work 
the land as a serf? Could I? I cannot forget 
what I have learnt now. If I get my freedom 
there is all the world before me. Then, again, is 
not that a temptation too? Mon pere, you are a 
priest. I have come to you for help! What shall 
I do?” 

The old man slowly rubbed his knees. 

“Ah!” he ejaculated thoughtfully; “ah!” 

He looked up, and met Jerome’s gaze. 

Then he turned his eyes upon the rough crucifix 
that was nailed over the chimney, and he stared at it 


54 


A Romance of Old Wars 


for a little while. The room was full of smoke, and 
the cross loomed dimly through the haze. 

'‘Well, well,” he said presently, “you must pray for 
faith.” 

There was a pause. 

“Yes,” he said, “you must pray for enlightenment.” 

Again there was a silence. 

“You must pray for guidance,” said the old man. 
“I cannot advise you. You must judge for yourself.” 

Jerome thrust his fingers into his hair. 

“That is true !” he said disconsolately, and the two 
men sat staring at the fire in silence. 

When Jerome at last left the priest’s cottage the sun 
was low in the west. 

He stood still in the churchyard, staring at the 
chateau on the hill close above him. 

“Is it God who shuts it against me?” he won- 
dered. 

He turned away, and watched the labourers return- 
ing from the fields. They came slowly, dark figures 
against the pale sky, heavy-footed and thick- jointed. 

'‘Every day for ever !” he murmured. 

“He! he! he!” sniggered his brother the shepherd 
behind him. “Are you free yet? Are you free?” 

Jerome wheeled round, and seizing him by the neck, 
shook him angrily. 

“Ah! ah! ah! let me go!” gasped Jehan. Jerome 
suddenly pushed him away, and thrust his hands into 
his belt. 

“God forgive me !” he said. 

Jehan’s lower lip hung disconsolately. 

“I was doing no harm,” he whined. 


A Romance of Old Wars 55 

“No, no !” said Jerome, harassed. “No harm.” 

“I don’t know why you should bully me,” he grum- 
bled. “I was doing nothing. I was doing no harm. 
Now, was I?” 

“No ! no ! I have said so !” 

“Then, why do you bully me ? I was doing nothing 
at all, and you choked me, you did !” 

A little barefooted boy came running down the 
lane. 

“Hi ! hi !” he cried, “there’s someone coming along 
the road. It’s a juggler, I do believe; he’s got a 
drum,” he pattered past them. “Ain’t you coming?” 
he said over his shoulder. 

But Jehan was still sulking. 

“I was doing no harm. Mayn’t I ask a question? 
Is that doing anything? I’ll not be choked! I — 
I ” 

The monotonous beat of a drum was heard in the 
distance. It caught Jehan ’s attention, and he listened, 
forgetting his grievance. The sound came steadily 
nearer. His eyes brightened, and involuntarily he 
began to walk towards it; then, as it grew louder and 
louder, he was suddenly seized with excitement, and 
ran wildly down the lane. 

Jerome sat down on a grave, his elbows on his 
knees, his long fingers in his hair. 

Dub! dub! dub-dub-dub! Presently one or two 
women appeared in their doorways. Dub! dub! dub- 
dub-dub ! 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know ! There’s a drum, for sure !” 

^‘They’re coming round the corner !” 


56 


A Romance of Old Wars 


'‘It’s a man!” 

“And only one!” 

“A juggler?” 

“No ! he’s in black — a messenger, perhaps.” 

“Or a pilgrim.” 

“Dub ! dub ! dub-dub-dub !” 

A small, solemn figure was marching into the village, 
surrounded by scrambling children. 

He was dressed in a shabby black gown, and carried 
a sort of pannier on his shoulders. His face was 
large and round, and he wore large round, horn- 
trimmed spectacles ; his nose w^s blunt and inconspicu- 
ous, his mouth small and pretty, and expressive of 
distaste of things in general. 

“Noel ! Noel !” screamed the children, hopping 
round him. “Look at his spectacles, and his drum ! 
Oh!” 

Josephine caught a small boy by the arm. 

“Who is he, Paul?” 

“A travelling physician! That basket is full of 
medicines !” 

“He ! he ! he !” chuckled Jehan, trotting close behind 
the stranger, laughing and pointing, and wagging his 
head now from side to side, now up and down. 

Josephine followed the little crowd. 

“Who is he?” asked the peasants, and, by twos and 
threes, they joined the procession, and went after the 
drummer. 

“Dub ! dub ! dub-dub-dub !” 

At this time Barbe was coming down the road from 
the chateau. She walked with a quick, bounding foot- 
step, as if her plumpness rendered her elastic. 


A Romance of Old Wars 


iZ 

“Eh!’^ she exclaimed, stopping short. “Now, what 
are they doing down there in the churchyard?” 

She watched for an instant, and then hurried on to 
see what was to be seen. 

She elbowed her way amongst the people. 

“What is it? What is it?” she asked. “Pardon, you 
know,” she added, squeezing through the crowd, for 
unless she lost her temper, she was strictly polite. 

The peasants made way for her, and then clustered 
round to watch the physician as he solemnly proceeded 
to make his arrangements. 

The stranger put down his basket, and, opening it, 
he took out a chequered cloth, which he spread on a 
tombstone, and on this he arranged his phials and small 
pots. 

Then he beat a preliminary tattoo upon his drum and 
began to speak. 

“I am a physician,” he announced, scarcely raising 
his voice, and as he spoke his small upper lip invol- 
untarily rose towards his nostrils, with a still more 
accentuated expression of distaste. “If you will allow 
me, I will leave some proof of my skill amongst you. 
I have here some medicines that would be well worth 
your while to procure. You may not be ill now, but 
you certainly will be before you die, and it is unlikely 
I shall pass this way again. Of course, other phy- 
sicians may come, but no one has the remedies that I 
can give you !” 

“Holy Virgin! How beautifully he speaks!” ex- 
claimed Barbe. “He might be a preacher!” 

“I didn’t hear. What did he say ?” 

“Hush!” 


58 A Romance of Old Wars 

“My cures are known all over the world/’ remarked 
the physician. “I have cured lameness, blindness, 
pains in the head, the feet, the arms, the stomach, 
fever, both constant and intermittent, poisoning of 
every sort, sunstroke, madness, evil humours of all 
kinds, wounds, burns, possession of devils, and 
leprosy !” 

“Ye Saints !” 

The peasants shrank away, a little alarmed. 

“Only the other day,” continued the physician, “I 
was passing by the chateau of Peterdon, and the 
chatelaine happened to be ill — they told me she was 
dying. I gave her some of this medicine, which 
is distilled from a herb I gathered in the Holy 
Land.” 

“And — and did you cure her?” 

“I did,” replied the physician, still without raising 
his voice. “I poured two drops between her lips. I 
noticed that her lips were already cold, and a rattle 
was in her throat.” 

“Ah !” 

“She recovered,” remarked Andre, with an air of 
unconcern. He selected a little bottle, and held it up 
for them to see. “I have here some of the same 
medicine. It was from this phial that I gave her the 
drops.” 

“O-o-o-o-h !” The peasants pressed nearer. 

“Now,” he asked, “is there anyone here who will buy 
health from me? There is nothing so precious — not 
gold, or silver, or jewels ! And I have it here, in my 
hand.” 

There was an embarrassed silence; then a stir, and 


A Romance of Old Wars 59 

a whispering, a nudging with elbows, a hesitation. At 
last a young woman, very red in the face, emerged and 
curtseyed. 

“I’ll have some, please;” and as soon as she had 
received and paid for her physic, she ran away gig- 
gling. 

“What does she want with it. I’d like to know?” 
grumbled Madeleine, bustling forward. “She’s well 
enough ; but it is always those that are strong that 
make a fuss. I’m sure I have enough to bear, but 
you’ll never hear me complain. Time after time I 
have been taken with a pain in my side, till I could 
hardly breathe, and not a soul would have known it 
but for my breath coming so short that it was like 
groans. For all that I’m stout and high-coloured, I 
suffer more than most, but one gets no pity in this 
world unless one asks for it.” 

The physician questioned her gravely. 

“I should advise you,” he said, “to drink this when 
the moon is full; but you must keep silence for a day 
and a night before drinking it, and a day and a night 
after!” 

“Ha I ha ! ha I” laughed the peasants. 

“Ho! ho! ho!” roared Nicol, slapping his knees. 

“You set of great fools!” screamed Madeleine. 
“You’d laugh if I was on my death-bed.” 

The peasants now crowded round the physician, 
pushing and clamouring. 

“Please, sir, I want stuff that will stop the tooth- 
ache.” 

“Last week I was in a fever, and I ached from head 
to foot ! I thought I should have died !” 


6o 


A Romance of Old Wars 


“Please, sir, I would like something that tastes 
nice 

“Oh, smell this ! Mon Dieu ! What a smell !” 

“Taste it!" 

“O Lord I" 

“There is Dame Barbe from the chateau," mur- 
mured Jerome. He was still sitting on the grave, a 
little way off. He watched her intently, waiting to 
sign to her. 

“If she looks this way. Til ask her to speak to the 
Sieur,” he thought. 

“O God, turn her eyes this way ! 

“If she does not look, I’ll give it up," he thought. 

“Now she is looking! No! she did not see me! 

“If only she would look again! 

“It is getting dark. She would not recognise me 
now, even if she did look round." 

The peasants were beginning to stroll away; the 
sound of their voices faded into the distance. 

Presently Barbe too turned, and hurried away 
through the dim twilight. 

Jerome peered after her. 

When he next looked round, everyone else had gone, 
and Andre the physician was sitting on a grave, pull- 
ing off his shoes. 

“O God! what shall I do?" groaned Jerome. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Blue darkness softened the sky, and hung in the 
still air. Curfew rang, and all the lights vanished from 
the village. The church looked gray, and a few white 
tombstones amongst the mounds seemed to hold a 
memory of light about them; but the chateau, aloof 
upon the hill, and the huts clustering at its foot, were 
a dense, dead black. 

Andre the physician was absorbed. He had propped 
his left foot on his right knee, and was carefully 
examining it in the dim starlight. 

“Oh dear me!” he sighed, and applied ointment to 
his blisters with a gentle forefinger. 

“Ah I that’s better,” he murmured ; and changing his 
position, he did the same thing to his other foot. 

Then he put both down in the long cool grass, and, 
looking up, he perceived Jerome. 

“Tiens I” he exclaimed, annoyed. “Who can that 
be? Hi I” he called out. “What are you doing here?” 

Jerome raised his head. 

“Good-evening,” he said. 

Andre stared through the dusk, but he could only 
distinguish a dark, crouching figure. 

“Good-evening,” he replied, and shifted his feet to 
another place in the grass. 

He yawned, rubbed his forehead, and yawned again. 

Presently he called out : 

“Are you going to stay there?” 

6i 


62 A Romance of Old Wars 

‘‘I don’t know,” said Jerome. 

“Devil take him !” murmured Andre. 

“If you are,” he said aloud, “you might just as well 
come nearer. 

“And if you aren’t,” he grumbled to himself, “I wish 
in the name of Heaven that you would hurry up and 
go! Sitting there like a monument that may turn at 
any moment into a ghost or a thief I I don’t like it.” 

Jerome rose and stalked towards the physician. He 
sat down on a mound near him. 

Andre took note of him. Through the dark his 
face was gray and indistinct; shadows lurked in his 
eye-sockets and deepened the hollows of his cheeks. 

“How long have you been there?” 

“Since just before sunset,” replied Jerome. 

“M — m — m I” said Andre. “What were you doing 
there?” 

“Nothing. Thinking.” 

“You didn’t buy any of my medicines,” remarked 
the physician thoughtfully. 

“No ; I am well.” 

“Eh ? Oh, yes ; but I shall hope for better luck next 
time.” His little mouth smiled innocently. “What 
were you thinking about ?” 

Jerome did not reply. 

“Who are you?” asked Andre. 

“A serf,” he said gloomily. 

“Of this village?” 

Jerome nodded. 

“Serfs don’t think,” said Andre. “You have no 
right to think if you are a serf ; and it’s never a wise 
thing to do/’ he added seriously. 


A Romance of Old Wars 63 


“I can’t make up my mind,” said Jerome sadly. 

‘‘There again! serfs do not want to make up their 
minds !’’ 

‘‘I have been to Pere Luc,” said Jerome, as if think- 
ing aloud. ‘‘He says I must judge for myself. That is 
true, but it is hard ! He could not help me. I think 
he did not understand. I do not want to decide for 
myself. I would give half my life to be under obe- 
dience.” 

‘‘Mon ami,” said Andre, “let me decide for you. I 
have a sufficient wit. Proof ! I live by it.” 

Jerome leant forward. 

“You are a stranger? You know nothing of me or 
of my life ?” 

“Nothing but what you tell me — a good reason for 
trusting my decision.” 

Andre nodded with a knowing solemnity. 

“Maybe God has sent you to help me ?” 

“I should doubt that,” murmured Andre, gazing up 
at the stars. 

“Maybe you could see more clearly than I what 
is right.” Jerome spoke wistfully. 

Andre bent towards him, with an air of giving him 
his best attention. 

“My friend,” he said impressively, “I am nothing 
if not a physician. Your symptoms are clear to me. 
You did not ask my advice this evening, nor did you 
buy any of my medicines. You were mistaken, sir! 
I am disinterested enough, however, to give you of 
both, free of charge. Now, you are suffering from 
the agueish humours of a scrupulous conscience, ag- 
gravated by a morbid accumulation of humility. First, 


64 


A Romance of Old Wars 


you should pray God to render you a little stupid. 
That is essential. No! don’t interrupt. Then you 
must drug your conscience with frequent small sins — 
a grain of vice morning, noon, and night. Hear me 
out 1 And you must give up your habit of thinking ! 
Do what will fill your mouth, without troubling about 
right and wrong I Sit down, man ! I assure you 
we have no time nor strength to be scrupulous. 
Good Lord! Do you expect your stomach to have 
patience while you are asking questions ? Eh ! 
What!” 

“You little cur!” thundered Jerome. He had 
started to his feet, and was standing before him, rigid, 
gaunt, and angular. 

Andre gasped. 

“Keep away from me !” cried Jerome wildly ; “keep 
out of my reach ! Do you tempt me to laugh at good ? 
I — I, who cannot understand what is good ! I, who do 
not know how to he good ! If you had spoken of 
honest doubt, God knows I could have taken your 
sympathy, but your words are vile with a mean buf- 
foonery ! I am ashamed to have heard them, to 
breathe the air which has held them! I am ashamed 
because they have been spoken over these dead !” 

Andre stared up at him mutely. His head sank 
between his shoulders; every moment he seemed to 
become smaller and more hunched. 

“Oh, all you dead!” cried Jerome passionately. 
“Listen to me ! I believe ! I believe in God, who has 
possession of my soul! 1 believe. I do not ask to 
understand! The things of God are beyond reason! 
I will not ask to understand. God is the answer to all 


A Romance of Old Wars 65 

unanswered questions. My soul is groping in dark- 
ness, but I believe! I cannot discover God, I cannot 
reach Him, I do not know how to love Him, but I 
believe! I know nothing, I understand nothing; I 
blunder, I hesitate, I am perplexed ! The dead cannot 
tell me what they know, the living cannot tell me what 
they guess ! No one can help me ! I am alone with 
God, whose presence is hidden from me ! But I 
believe!” he shouted. “Do you hear?” 

For one instant, as the sound of his voice died away, 
he stood there, and then wheeling round, he strode out 
of the churchyard, and along the road that led up to 
the chateau. His ragged black gown stretched to his 
long step, and flapped about his shins. He went with- 
out stopping, without turning his head, straight up to 
the great arched gateway, and in its shadow he dis- 
appeared. 

Andre watched him go without moving. He was 
huddled together, his shoulders up to his ears, his 
knees to his chin. 

Then he slowly drew himself out. He lifted his 
head, put back his shoulders, stretched, and drew a 
deep breath. 

“Cordieu !” he murmured, shaking his head, and he 
stretched again. 

He put on his shoes, and rapidly began to pack his 
pannier, carefully stopping his bottles and fitting the 
lids to his little boxes. 

His basket packed, he lay down with his head upon 
a mound and settled to sleep. Presently, however, he 
sat up. 

“A little cur!’' he murmured, with distaste, and his 


66 A Romance of Old Wars 


upper lip lifted to his nostrils — “a little cur! And, 
after all,” he said emphatically, “a great deal of what 
I said was true, and sensible. As a matter of fact, it 
all was !” he added, and, settling down again, he shut 
his eyes and slept. 


CHAPTER IX 


Jerome stood waiting before the great door of the 
chateau. 

Night seemed to have concentrated under the arch- 
way in a darkness so profound that it appeared end- 
less, and Jerome involuntarily put out his hands to 
touch the rough splintered surface and the iron clamps 
of the door he could not see. 

‘T must wait till morning/’ he acknowledged to him- 
self, and, turning, he saw the old moon rise. 

A dog howled somewhere on the plain, and far away 
sheep were bleating. 

He turned back to gaze with wide-open, unseeing 
eyes at the dark. 

An owl hooted, and again he looked out from under 
the arch. The bird flew by swiftly, black against the 
steely moonlit sky, and presently he heard it hoot once 
more. 

A few thin, dull clouds, lay across the sky; the 
moon was behind them, whitening their filmy edges. 
Jerome watched until it had passed into clear atmos- 
phere, and then again he turned his eyes from the 
spacious, tenderly-living night, to the narrow shadow 
of the gateway. 

He waited. 

He waited patiently, his hands in his sleeves, his 
eyes fixed; he did not kneel, nor sit, nor lean against 
the wall. 


67 


68 A Romance of Old Wars 

At last he became aware that the earth was awake 
with the twittering of birds, and the door loomed dimly 
before him, massive and iron-bound. It occurred to 
him that he was cold. A sense of loneliness and of stir- 
ring life made him look round, and he saw the dawn. 

The church bell began to ring. 

Presently he heard a step shuffle across the court- 
yard beyond the door, and his eyes became intent with 
expectation. 

A moment later there was a sound of hurrying feet ; 
a door banged, someone shouted, a bell rang, rough 
voices began squalling. 

Then there was a sudden hush, and he heard a 
woman’s low voice discoursing. 

Steps approached the door; the key grated and 
turned with a jerk, and he heard the sound of heavy 
bolts being worked back, of chains falling and rattling. 
The great door shook, and opened, and he stood face 
to face with Dame Mathilde. She held her long black 
houppelande close about her, and in the cold light her 
wrinkled, austere countenance seemed as little human 
as the faded painting of a saint. 

She looked at him with surprise. 

'‘Pardon me, madame,” he said timidly. 'T wish to 
see the Sieur.” 

"At this hour ?” she exclaimed. 

"I will wait, madame,” he said desperately. "I 
have been here three times, and each time I have been 
told to come again. Now I will wait.” 

She scrutinized him. 

"I know your face, surely,” she said. "Ah! is it 
possible that you are Jerome?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 69 

“Yes, madame.” 

“They told me you had come back,” she said. “Yes, 
you can wait if you like. The Sieur will see you when 
he is at liberty. Go inside.” 

Jerome bowed and stepped out of her way. He 
watched her descend the hill, followed by the maid, 
who was carrying her missal. 

“Come in, then, come in!” grumbled the porter. 
“I’m not so fond of standing at this door, whatever 
you may be! And, by all the Saints, I’d let you try 
it for another hour or two if I’d had my way. It’s 
lucky for you that Dame Mathilde goes to Mass in 
the village;” and, banging and locking the door, he 
hurried away. 

“I must wait,” murmured Jerome, looking round 
him, and slowly making his way into the courtyard of 
the inner ward. 

The door of the great hall stood open, and a couple 
of servants were sweeping the soiled straw out and 
down the steps, where a dirty, long-legged youth was 
forking it into a barrow. Another servant was beat- 
ing the long cushions from the benches and window- 
seats against the wall. 

“You can take that straw outside the gate and empty 
your barrow there,” cried the portly maitre d’hotel, 
emerging from a door to the right. 

The boy gazed up at him, sniffing, and rubbing his 
hand up and down his thigh. 

“Outside?” he asked stupidly. 

“Outside!” roared the maitre d’hotel. “The peas- 
ants are to have it.” 

He then strode up the steps, pushed past the serv- 


70 A Romance of Old Wars 

ants into the hall, and Jerome heard him angrily find- 
ing fault with some negligence. ' 

Then a girl in a blue dress and square coiffe ran 
hurriedly across the courtyard. 

“Barbel Barbel” she cried. “Barbel Madame 
Huette is awake.” 

“I must wait,” murmured Jerome, puckering his 
forehead, and he strolled towards the kitchen, which 
stood in the left-hand angle. 

Here the scullions were at work. Two were sluicing 
the floor with water, another was blowing the fire with 
a pair of huge bellows, a fourth was standing near 
the door plucking a fowl. 

“Tiens I” he said, as Jerome approached. “Who are 
you ? And what are you doing here ?” 

“I want to see the Sieur. Dame Mathilde told me 
to wait,” began Jerome. 

“Told him to wait I Hoi hoi” laughed the scullion. 
“You’ll have learnt what waiting means before you 
have done. Eh I Simon?” he cried to the man blowing 
the fire. 

“Curse these logs I” growled Simon. 

“May I wait here?” asked Jerome. 

“If you can find a dry place.” 

“Get on the table.” 

“Or the fire.” 

“Not if you want a dry place,” cried Simon. “The 
wood’s as wet as if it had been stacked in the river.” 

Jerome made his way in, and seated himself in the 
chimney-corner, spreading his hands in the smoke 
that curled up from the smouldering logs. 

“What do you want to see the Sieur for, eh? I 


A Romance of Old Wars 71 

doubt if he’s even awake yet,” asked one of the scul- 
lions who were splashing the floor. 

“Mon Dieu! No! He never gets up for Maitrc 
Olivier’s Mass,” remarked Simon. 

“Unless he is hunting!” 

“And then he is up and away with no more than 
the beginning of an ‘Amen’ in his ear.” 

“And those days Dame Mathilde goes about with 
her mouth like nothing so much as a crack over her 
chin!” 

“And those days Madame Huette scolds the women ! 
E— e— eh !” 

“But ” began Jerome. 

“But what? Eh, mon ami! It’s like this.” The 
scullion leant on the stick of his mop and explained. 
“Dame Mathilde is holy, and Dame Huette is jealous ! 
Holy Virgin! but jealous of everything and everyone! 
Well, and the Sieur likes his own way. Now, Dame 
Mathilde goes to three Masses every blessed day! 
And she would like him to do the same. But he hears 
one only, and that a grand, sung one, and if it isn’t 
to his liking, Maitre Olivier hears of it. He plays the 
organ, Maitre Olivier. And then, again. Dame Huette 
would have him stay always at her side, but the Sieur 
is only for being with her when the fancy takes him, 
and if that’s as much as once a day. I’ll be hanged.” 

“NoH !” shouted Guillaume, swinging the fowl 
round by the legs. “That’s done.” 

“Yah !” he jeered. “You’re all behindhand. Simon, 
you’ll never be ready to blow the organ.” 

“I wish it was as easy to blow fire into this wood 
as it is to blow noise into the organ,” grumbled Simon. 


72 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Ho! Here’s old Jacques,” cried Guillaume, as a 
burly, black-haired man with a good-humoured grin 
appeared at the door. A bunch of heavy keys hung 
at his girdle. 

“Hi, Jacques! How are the prisoners? Ain’t they 
glad to see you of a morning?” 

“This is the last morning one of them will see me. 
I’m thinking,” replied the gaoler with a wink. 

“Eh?” 

“The fellow brought in yesterday.” 

“Well?” 

“He’ll end to-day in conversation with the crows up 
there on the hill, if you ask me,” he said, jerking his 
thumb over his shoulder. 

Simon went into the larder, and brought out a bowl 
and a loaf of gray bread. 

“Here you are,” he said, banging them down on 
the table. 

Jacques eyed them and sniffed. 

“There’s enough there for them a//,” he said. 

“Well, why not?” 

“Why not? Ye Saints! would you put good food 
into a man that is going to be hanged before the day 
is out ? I call it damned waste !” 

“So it is, Jacques.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

“You’re right there.” 

“You’re a man of sense!” shouted Guillaume, 
thumping the gaoler on the back. 

They clustered round the table and tore pieces from 
the loaf, snatching it from each other. Then, dip- 
ping their crusts in the broth, their heads hanging 


A Romance of Old Wars 73 

over the bowl, while the soup dripped from their 
fingers, they chewed the bread, tough in spite of its 
soaking. 

“Bah !“ cried Simon, sucking his fingers. “It’s not 
much better than coloured water!” 

“You need not have any if you’re so particular,” 
mumbled Guillaume. 

“Cordieu! Who’s that?” cried Simon, as the door 
opened slowly. 

The scullions started guiltily away from the table. 

A little boy peeped round the door. 

”Dites doncT he said. “Give me something to eat. 
I had no supper last night.” 

Simon pulled him into the kitchen by one arm and 
by his long hair. 

“You puling son of a hungry sneak!” he snarled. 
“What do you mean by prying round doors like that ?” 

“Yah! Let me go!” screamed the child. 

“I’ll teach you to come asking for food at all hours ! 
I’ll see that you know a thing or two! I’ll give you 
tales to tell !” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” howled the boy, as the scullion 
cuffed him. 

“Look out ! Someone is coming !” cried Guillaume, 
as the door burst open and a middle-aged priest rushed 
in. He snatched the boy from the scullion. 

“You fool ! you fool ! you fool !” he lamented. His 
face was scarlet, his pale blue eyes goggling with 
excitement. 

“Cordieu! It’s Maitre Olivier!” exclaimed Simon, 
grinning. 

“How dare you make him cry !” wailed the musi- 


74 


A Romance of Old Wars 


cian. “Gaston, be quiet ! Here! Water!” He seized 
one of the pails and dashed the contents at the child’s 
head, and then flung it clattering on to the floor. 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the scullions. 

The priest shook his fist at them. 

“The Sieur shall hear of this. How do you expect 
Gaston to sing if you make him howl? He will be 
hoarse. His voice will shake. He will sing false. 
Mother of God ! Why were such idiots ever sent upon 
earth? Gaston, will you stop crying?” 

“I — I — can’t, sir!” sobbed Gaston. 

“There’s the bell for Mass!” remarked Jacques 
calmly. 

“I must go !” cried the priest desperately. 

“Gaston, stop crying! There’s the bell! Oh, mon 
Dieu! Don’t cry! I must go!” 

Jerome rose and followed him as he hurried out of 
the kitchen, and across the courtyard towards the 
chapel. 

The door stood open and he went in. Two candles 
were lit for the low Mass. Dame Mathilde was al- 
ready in her place, and a moment later the door leading 
into the chateau opened and Madame Huette entered. 
She wore a long, pale blue gown, embroidered with 
silver ; her red hair, not yet concealed by a matron’s 
coiffe, hung down her back in two thick plaits; her 
head was covered with a silver net. As she advanced 
to a prie-dieu beside Dame Mathilde, Maitre Olivier 
entered from the sacristy, his vestment awry, his 
biretta on the back of his head, his light blue eyes 
vague and preoccupied. 

“But the Sieur — will they not wait for the Sieur?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 75 

asked Jerome, turning to old Pierre, who was standing 
beside him. 

“The Sieur comes to the High Mass when this one 
is over,” he replied. 

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! I must wait,” murmured 
Jerome, his fingers in his hair. 


CHAPTER X 


Dame Yolande was crippled with gout. 

When she was dressed that morning, Odette 
wheeled her chair into the hall, and placed her close 
to one of the high barred windows, so that a good 
light might fall upon her embroidery. 

She wore a crimson gown, deep folds falling about 
her, and long pointed sleeves cumbering her arms. 
Her coiffe was double-horned, covered with thick gold 
netting, a white veil following the heart-shaped out- 
line, and hanging softly and voluminously behind her 
neck and shoulders. 

She was sallow, and her large, pale eyes looked dis- 
consolate, but the lines upon her face were very few 
and delicate. 

The sun was shining through the windows, tracing 
the shadows of the crossed bars upon the opposite 
wall, and sunlight lay in a bright patch on the straw- 
covered pavement, slanting in through the open door. 
Barbe brought her embroidery frame, and placed be- 
side her a table covered with silks, amongst which 
lay a small pair of scissors shaped like shears. 

“Is that right?” she asked briskly. “You can reach, 
eh?” 

“Yes, that’s all right,” said Dame Yolande. But 
the next instant she let her frame slip to the ground 
with a clatter. 

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed wearily. “I can 
76 


A Romance of Old Wars 77 

do nothing while I am ill like this. Take it away ! 
Take everything away !” She rested her elbows on 
the arms of her chair, and lent her forehead against 
her clasped hands. 

“Ah, dear me !” sighed Barbe, shaking her head. 

She picked up the frame, and stood, holding it in 
both hands, regarding Dame Yolande in puzzled 
silence. 

“I was in the village yesterday evening,” she an- 
nounced presently. “Eh, but the ways of God are 
wonderful ! All the evening I had felt unusual and 
restless, and as if I wanted to go out, and at last I 
went, and there! — there was a stranger who had just 
arrived, addressing the people in the churchyard. 
Ah ! but he spoke as beautifully as a preaching 
friar.” 

Dame Yolande looked up. 

“He was a physician, he said,” continued Barbe — 
“Andre the physician, he said. Eh I but you should 
have seen the crowd of people listening to him! All 
the village was there. Ah ! but it was beautiful !” 

“A physician, you say?” asked Dame Yolande, 
interested. 

Barbe nodded, smiling and bright-eyed. “He has 
herbs from the Holy Land,” she said; “and he can 
cure everything!” 

“I wish,” said Dame Yolande; “but I am afraid — 
Dame Mathilde might be angry. Still — medicines 
from the Holy Land! Barbe, why didn’t he come 
to the chateau to sleep? A physician! Was he 
riding?” 

“I don’t know, dame. I didn’t see.” 


78 


A Romance of Old Wars 


“Barbe, send to find out if he has gone yet. And — 
and don’t tell anyone you have sent till you know 
whether he is still here. He might do me good !” 

“Eh, Holy Virgin !” cried Barhe. “It stands to 
reason that a man who has been to the Holy Land 
must be a better physician than the man who has not. 
Eh, no ! Besides, it was not for nothing that the good 
God sent me last night into the village.” And again 
tossing her head, she bustled out of the room. 

“He might come in while they are at Mass,” thought 
Dame Yolande. “Anyway, I need not say that I sent 
for him. He was passing, and as he was there, I 
thought it would be no harm to ask him in.” 

A moment later Matthieu and Eustace de Soulon, 
his esquire and cousin, came in together. 

Matthieu went up to his mother, and knelt on one 
knee to kiss her hand. 

He was tall and still slim, upright and agile. His 
cheek and chin were dark where they had been shaved, 
but his pathetic mouth and twinkling eyes were un- 
changed. 

He was dressed entirely in green, embroidered with 
gold. 

“I am very bad, Matthieu!” whimpered Dame 
Yolande. “Maitre Gilles does me no good.” 

Matthieu stuck his thumbs inside his jewelled belt. 

“Why not?” he asked imperiously. “Doesn’t he 
take trouble ? By Heaven, I’ll have him flogged every 
day till you’re well I” 

“No, no, Matthieu! He’s not careless, but he is 
stupid. He doesn’t understand.” 

“But he’s got to understand. Hola, Pierre !” 


A Romance of Old Wars 79 

“No, no, Matthieu! Your grandmother! Remem- 
ber ” 

“Here come Dame Mathilde and Dame Huette,’' re- 
marked Eustace, arranging his brown curls. He was 
slender and small-featured; his cotte-hardie was half 
blue and half green, and his hose parti-coloured to 
match. As Dame Mathilde entered, followed by 
Huette, he bowed profoundly. 

Matthieu advanced to kiss their hands, and then 
stood aside as they approached his mother. 

The old chatelaine formally kissed Dame Yolande, 
who submitted inattentively. She was watching Mat- 
thieu with anxiety. 

“I have been expecting to hear the chapel bell,“ 
remarked Dame Mathilde severely. 

“Oh, by-the-by,” said Matthieu, “they are going to 
sing a new Mass this morning. Eustace, go and tell 
them to get ready.’^ 

“How is it that you are so late?’' asked his grand- 
mother. 

“I’ve been in bed. Cordieu! I passed more than 
half the night making music with Maitre Olivier.” 

“Matthieu, do you address me in that tone?” The 
old chatelaine drew herself up. “You are master,” 
she said with dignity. “You are a knight and the 
head of the family, but I am your father’s mother and 
an old woman. Respect is due to me.” 

Matthieu frowned. 

Then suddenly he smiled, and gently lifted her old, 
worn fingers to his lips. 

“Pardon, grandmother,” he said. 

Huette was standing behind Dame Yolande’s chair, 


8o A Romance of Old Wars 

her hand resting on the back of it. Her eyes were 
fixed upon Matthieu, following his every movement. 

The chapel bell began to ring, and Eustace strolled 
back into the hall. 

“Do you know,” he remarked casually, “that ban- 
dit that was caught yesterday is like a monkey. He’s 
climbed up to the window of the prison, and he’s cling- 
ing to the bars with one hand, while he catches at the 
legs of everyone who goes by with the other. He 
says he is hungry.” 

“Cordieu !” exclaimed Matthieu. “I had forgotten 
the scoundrel.” He bounded up the steps to the 
window, Huette turning to watch him, and leaning on 
the sill, he cried: “Jacques! Jacques!” 

“Monseigneur,” replied the gaoler’s voice from out- 
side. 

“That fellow, that bandit ” 

“Of yesterday, monseigneur?” 

“Hang him,” said Matthieu, and leaped back into 
the room. 

“Ah !” cried Dame Yolande, suddenly clutching the 
arms of her chair as if to rise. “Who’s that? Who 
is it? What’s he doing here?” 

She was staring at the door, where Jerome, gaunt, 
shabby, and wild-eyed, was standing on the threshold. 

“What the devil ” cried Matthieu. 

Dame Mathilde put up her hand. 

“I know him; it is Jerome.” 

“Jerome? Jerome? Who is Jerome?” 

“Mere Nannette’s son.” 

“But what in the name of all the Saints is he doing 
there?” cried Matthieu. 


A Romance of Old Wars 8 i 


Jerome entered, and knelt at the Sieur’s feet. 

“Pardon, monseigneur,” he said. “I came to the 
chateau three times yesterday, and I have been waiting 
all the morning.” 

“Why wasn’t I told, then?” cried Matthieu, scowl- 
ing. “And why didn’t you wait till you were sent 
for?” The next moment his lips parted with his sud- 
den, unexpected smile, and he said : “Jerome ! why, 
of course. Bon Dieu ! Of course it is you. But 

where Why, man, I am glad to see you back. 

You were the best of the lot at a tussle. Upon my hon- 
our, I believe you were the only one of the boys I never 
threw! But what has sapped your muscle? Holy 
Saints I I could knock you over now with half a blow I” 

Jerome waited patiently till he had finished speak- 
ing; he was thinking of one thing only. 

“Monseigneur,” he said anxiously, “I have come to 
beg for my freedom.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve got money to 
buy your liberty?” exclaimed Matthieu. 

“No, monseigneur,” said Jerome fiercely. He rose 
to his feet. 

“No?” Matthieu regarded him with surprise. 

“I ask you to give it to me,” said Jerome passion- 
ately. 

“Insolence!” murmured Eustace. 

Matthieu was standing with his feet apart, his 
thumbs inside his belt; he scrutinized Jerome from 
head to foot. 

“Why?” he asked bluntly. 

“Monseigneur, I aspire to the priesthood.” 

There was a silence. 


82 A Romance of Old Wars 


Jerome suddenly thrust his fingers into his hair. 

“Maybe you would be right to refuse me,” he said 
despondently. “I do not know. I doubt if I am fit to 
do more than plough your land. But I have spent 
seven years in learning and hoping. I have learnt 
how much there is to learn, how much there is to hope 

for. If you bid me return to the plough now ” 

He broke off for an instant. “I know that I am ask- 
ing to serve God in a way of my own choosing,” he 
went on, “and I cannot tell if I am seeking first to do 
His will, or first my own happiness. I cannot test my- 
self. I have nothing to renounce but my learning, and 
to become a priest I must gratify my desire for knowl- 
edge. I am a serf ! To become a priest I must have 
my freedom. God knows I doubt myself ! I have hes- 
itated! I have prayed! I have struggled to discover 
what is right, and now I have come to you to ask you 
for my liberty. If it is God’s will I believe that you 
will grant it ; if not, I shall know that I am unworthy. 
My mother will be glad to have me at home,” he said 
simply. 

“Well, but Good heavens! don’t you know 

your own mind?” exclaimed Matthieu. 

“Absurd!” said Dame Yolande. “Send him away.” 

“No, Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde. “He is not 
unreasonable. Remember, he went to the University 
with our consent.” 

“He asks so humbly !” sneered Eustace. 

“You have been in Paris?” demanded Matthieu. 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“Yes, yes, I remember now! I was away at the 
time, but they told me about you. To be sure, it was 


A Romance of Old Wars 83 

the monks of Saint Luc who filled your head with 
these ideas. But you have brought a letter of recom- 
mendation or something from someone ?” 

Jerome produced a roll of parchment, and gave it 
to him. 

Matthieu glanced at it, but did not read it. He flung 
it down on the table, and turned round to Eustace. 

“Tell them to stop ringing that bell,” he said. “Tell 
them I am not coming yet.” 

“Look here,” he said to Jerome. “If I refuse, you 
will submit without a word.” 

Jerome grew white; the lines on his face seemed to 
become deeper. 

“Well ?” said Matthieu. 

“Do you refuse?” asked Jerome. 

“Cordieu !” cried the Sieur angrily. “Did I tell you 
to question me? Why don’t you reply?” 

Again Jerome thrust his hands into his hair; his 
eyes searched Matthieu’s face with the inquiring dis- 
tress of a dumb animal that is being hurt. 

“Yes,” he said shortly. 

“Eustace,” said Matthieu, as the esquire returned, 
“tell Maitre Paul to come here.” 

“Write out a grant of freedom for Jerome the 
Lean, Mere Nannette’s son,” he commanded, as the 
secretary shuffled in. 

“Yes, sir,” said Maitre Paul huskily, and sitting 
down by the table he produced pen and paper, and, 
sprawling forward, he began to write. 

“This afternoon come to the church, and you shall 
have your liberty,” said Matthieu. 

Jerome stood absolutely still, except that his big. 


84 A Romance of Old Wars 

thin hands, clutched together, were shaking a little. 
His mouth was shut tightly, his eyes were cast down ; 
he did not speak or move. 

'‘So grateful !” sneered Eustace under his breath. 

Suddenly Huette put up her hand. 

“Listen,” she said. 

“What do you hear ?” asked Dame Mathilde. 

“Horses’ hoofs !” 

“Stop scratching with that pen!” cried Dame 
Yolande impatiently. 

“They are coming up the hill.” 

“Hark!” 

A horn sounded at the gate. 

Huette sprang up the steps to the window. 

“What is it?” cried Dame Yolande. 

“I can’t see yet.” 

A clatter was heard in the courtyard. 

“A messenger!” cried Huette. “It is the Count’s 
colours.” 

“A messenger!” echoed Dame Yolande tremu- 
lously. “Oh, Matthieu, if it should be war !” 

Matthieu grew red; his look was fixed expectantly 
on the doorway, his lips were parted. 

There was a sound of quick, firm steps outside. A 
servant entered, followed closely by a man, dusty and 
red-faced, his hair plastered on his forehead. 

“Monseigneur,” began the servant, but the man 
strode forward and knelt before Matthieu, handing 
him a sealed packet. 

“Monseigneur, the Count of Villerou greets you. 
He bids me deliver this letter of instructions into 
your hands, calling upon you, as you owe him fealty 


A Romance of Old Wars 85 

for your lands, to muster all the men to your name, 
that you may follow him properly accoutred and ac- 
companied to fight for the King and the Count of 
Flanders against the Flemish, who in the pride and 
sinfulness of their hearts have rebelled against their 
rightful lord.” 

Matthieu’s eyes shone. He broke the seal, and 
unfolding the letter, he stared at it for a moment. 
Then he flung it to the secretary. 

“Here, you must read it,” he cried, and began to 
pace up and down. 

All at once he stopped, and seizing Eustace by the 
hands he shouted boyishly : 

“Noel! Here, bring wine!” he cried. “Sir, by 
all the Saints you bring welcome news! His horse 
to the stables! Wine, I say! Bring wine! Noel!” 

Huette was very white. 

“What is it?” cried Dame Yolande piteously. “I 
didn’t understand! Is it war? Oh, Matthieu!” 

“Hush, Yolande !” said Dame Mathilde sternly. 

“You’ve no heart,” whimpered Dame Yolande, tears 
running down her cheeks. 

Matthieu snatched the aiguihe of wine from the 
servant who was bringing it in, and filled the goblets. 

“Here’s to victory, prowess, and the nobility of 
France!” he cried. “Here’s to my sword! Drink 
with me, Huette.” 

He held the goblet to her lips. As she sipped the 
wine her eyes met his; in her look there was a ques- 
tion, an expectancy, an excitement. 

But there was no understanding in his face, and 
suddenly gathering up her long, blue skirts in front, 


86 


A Romance of Old Wars 


she ran out of the hall, her draperies and hanging 
sleeves fluttering behind her. 

Matthieu gave a laugh, and throwing back his head 
he drank till the cup was empty, and then tossed it 
to the other end of the room. 

Dame Yolande started at the clatter, and hid her 
face in her hands. 

‘‘Matthieu !” said Dame Mathilde reproachfully. 

“Will monseigneur sign?’^ asked the secretary in 
his hoarse whisper. 

“Sign what?’' 

“The grant of freedom,” replied Maitre Paul. 

“To the devil with it!” cried Matthieu. “Sign it! 
Have you taken leave of your senses? I can’t spare 
you, Jerome, now! You must wait till this is over. 
Man, you shall see a bit of life before you take to 
prayer and preaching ! We’ll give the rebels a lesson ! 
No^l !” 

Jerome raised his eyes and looked him full in the 
face for one moment. Then he turned and strode out 
into the courtyard and across the gateway. 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed Eustace, pointing after him. 
“Did you ever see a man so like a moulting raven ?” 


CHAPTER XI 


Matthieu gave orders for the crier to cry a muster 
of the freemen in two days’ time. 

“Get out the rolls, Maitre Paul,” he said. “Let us 
see how many men we ought to have at our disposal. 
We shall take a boy or two as goujats. Cordieu ! 
Gaston shall come, and then he can sing to me when he 
is not carrying water.” 

That afternoon Matthieu went up to one of the 
great storerooms to overhaul the tents. 

Barbe and her maids spread the canvases on the 
floor before him; his own was painted and fringed. 
He looked at them with dissatisfaction. 

“They are all dirty and weather-stained,” he grum- 
bled. “Half the colours have run or faded.” 

He pulled them about, fingering the canvas, disen- 
tangling the cords. 

“This rope is rotten. Look here! and this one too! 
and here is a pole split !” 

“You must send for old Louis the tent-maker,” 
he said. “I will have a new tent for myself. I don’t 
see why I should not have it made of brocade or — 
or velvet !” 

“Eh ! My son !” screamed Barbe. “And if it rains, 
what then ? It is ruined in an hour.” 

“Anyway, I will have it bigger than this,” said Mat- 
thieu. “Cordieu ! One must have room to turn round. 
87 


88 A Romance of Old Wars 

And, Barbe, send down to the village, and say I must 
have new ropes twisted for every one of these tents.” 

“Yes, yes, monseigneur,” said Barbe importantly. 
“Fll see to it ! Fll think of it all. It shall be done 
instantly. Yes, yes.” 

Matthieu next went to the stables. He tried the 
door of the waggon-house and found it locked. 

“Pierre !” he shouted. “Fetch the key.” 

Old Pierre, bent and bandy-legged, was at work on 
the other side of the courtyard. He looked up in- 
quiringly, and perceiving the Sieur, started to come 
towards him. 

“Fetch the key!” cried Matthieu. 

“At once, monseigneur;” and he hurried away un- 
steadily into the chateau. He returned, the key in 
his dirty hand, his red face creased with an amiable 
grin. 

“The waggons are in a bad state, monseigneur — a 
bad state. If you remember, I was saying some weeks 
ago that they ought to be seen to,” he said, as he 
pulled the doors open. They jarred against the un- 
even ground, shook, and jarred again. A small pane- 
less window, filmy with cobwebs, admitted a dim light 
into the crypt-like waggon-house. The carts loomed 
gauntly through the dusk ; two were tilted forwards, 
the shafts lying like snouts along the ground, while two 
others stood with their poles uplifted in the air ; 
one with a missing wheel lay on its side. Three 
of them were covered waggons, the canvas being 
furled to their arched ribs. 

“Get the wheelwright,” said Matthieu, as he in- 
spected one after the other. “All these waggons must 


A Romance of Old Wars 89 

be fit to use in a fortnight. And you may as well tell 
him at the same time that he is to come with us.” 

“One thing you are forgetting,” said Dame 
Mathilde, as the Sieur passed through the hall. “Who 
is to defend Chatelfors, and to work the land ?” 

Matthieu stood still. 

“By all the Saints!” he said, “I had not thought of 
that.” 

“Jerome can stay for one,” he added thoughtfully. 

“Simon?” suggested Dame Mathilde. “He is get- 
ting old.” 

“What, Simon the saddlemaker? No, I must have 
him with me. Petit Pierre is not nearly so good a 
workman.” 

“Could you not leave him, then?” 

Matthieu shook his head. 

“He’s a good archer, if he’s an indifferent saddle- 
maker. No, I must have him.” 

“Well, then, leave one of the carpenters.” 

“Well, yes. You shall have Michael, and, after all, 
the cook and scullions count as men in case of neces- 
sity. I shall take Guillaume and Simon to cook for 
us. And you will have old Pierre too — he is worth 
half a dozen, though he is so old ; and Jacques the 
gaoler and Maitre Gilles the physician.” 

“But, Matthieu!” wailed Dame Yolande from her 

chair under the window. “You don’t mean But 

you must have a physician with you !” 

“Oh, I shall have my barber,” said Matthieu care- 
lessly. “Pierre-Marie can dress a wound.” 

“But, Matthieu!” cried his mother piteously. “You 
mustn’t — indeed, you mustn’t — trust to him. He 


90 A Romance of Old Wars 

knows nothing! Dame Mathilda! why don’t you 
speak to him ? You know — you know. Oh, my son ! 
if you are killed, it will break my heart !’’ 

“It would be well to take a physician,” said Ma- 
thilda quietly. “You are going into danger, and there 
is no cowardice in providing against it.” 

“But is my mother to be left with no physician, 
then?” said Matthieu. “No, let Maitre Gilles stay. 
Perhaps I’ll get someone at Soussons or Arras!” 

“But, Mathilda,” cried Dame Yolande. “There is 
one here now. Clearly it is God’s providence that has 
brought him here. He’s in the village. Barbe was 
telling me, and he carries medicines from the Holy 
Land. Oh, Matthieu ! take him with you !” 

“He is here, do you say, dame?” asked Matthieu 
reluctantly. 

“Yes, yes! Barbe knows. Barbe heard him speak- 
ing to the peasants. Barbe has sent for him.” 

“Oh, well. I’ll see,” said Matthieu, and turned to 
go. At the door he stopped, and, as if with a sudden 
idea, said, with his quick smile : “Let him try and cure 
you, dame; and if he succeeds before we start, Fll 
either take him or let him fill Maitre Gilles’ place. 
Will that do?” 

“Eustace! Eustace!” they heard him shout along 
the corridor; and in ten minutes’ time he and his 
esquire rode out of the chteau gate, and down towards 
the village. 

At the foot of the hill they met Jehan the shepherd, 
with his flock. 

“Hi, Jehan !” cried Matthieu gaily. “Are you com- 
ing with us to fight the Flemish ?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 91 

“He ! he ! he !“ sniggered the shepherd, pointing to- 
wards the village. “Madeleine is crying! Josephine 
is crying ! Marie is crying 1 He 1 he I he I” 

“Women always cry!” said Matthieu scornfully to 
the damoiseau, “except my grandmother.” 

They passed the church and came to the forge, 
where Nicol, his sleeves rolled back above his elbows, 
was at work. A boy was blowing the roaring fire with 
a pair of huge bellows; sparks, starting from the 
flame, sprinkled the black back of the chimney and 
vanished again. 

Matthieu reined in his horse and called : 

“Nicol !” 

The smith, in the act of swinging his hammer 
backwards, stopped short before lifting it to strike. 
He dropped it on the ground and came out. 

“Monseigneur?” 

“You’ve heard the crier?” asked Matthieu eagerly. 
‘‘Yon are to come, you know,” he went on. “And, 
Nicol, I want you up at the chateau at once. There’s 
a rivet missing from my helmet, and a whole plate 
gone from one of my knee-pieces.” 

As he was speaking a young woman eyed him from 
her hut-door. She came towards him, and then 
paused, vacillating. Then seeing that the Sieur had 
perceived her, she approached and curtseyed. 

“Monseigneur?” she began timidly. 

“Why, Mariette!” he said. “What is the matter?” 

“Is it true, monseigneur?” 

“What? That we are going to war? Yes, praised 
be God !” 

The tears ran down her cheeks. 


92 


A Romance of Old Wars 


“Oh, monseigneur, leave him behind ! Surely there 
will be plenty without him ! And what shall I do if 
he goes? How can I live, and I to be a mother so 
soon! I cannot work our land by myself! It would 
be better if we were serfs ! Leave him behind, mon- 
seigneur ! Leave me my man/’ 

“Eh, Mariette,” said Nicol gruffly. “Do you think 
your husband would thank you if he knew what you 
were doing?” 

“Maybe not!” she cried. “But what do I care! I 
want to live, do you understand? And I want my 
child to live, though why I am sure I don’t know, for it 
is better to be dead, and to see the end of one’s troubles ! 
But, mon Dieu ! it takes time to die !” 

Matthieu wrinkled his forehead. 

He swore under his breath. 

“Oh, well,” he said, “send your husband to 
the chateau to-morrow, and I’ll see what can be 
done.” 

“Upon my honour,” remarked Eustace, as they 
rode on their way. “If you meet many more of these 
whining women, you and I will be the only men 
who will join the Count when the time comes to 
start!” 

They turned towards the northeast, and skirted the 
foot of the hills for about half a mile. The road was 
uneven, and cut with great ruts. The thick growth 
of bushes encroached over the edge, and in more than 
one place the overhanging ground had slipped, crush- 
ing the rough hedge, and covering the way with broken 
earth, and the torn roots of weeds. 

At one point half a dozen labourers were at work 


A Romance of Old Wars 93 

repairing the road. They wore rough brown tunics 
girded with leathern belts; their knees were bare, and 
the tops of their big boots were rolled over. 

When Matthieu and Eustace approached slowly, 
swearing as they held up their stumbling horses, the 
men straightened themselves to stare. 

“Hola ! my friends !” cried the Sieur. “Would you 
like a change of work?” 

The men exchanged looks of stolid perplexity; one 
scratched his head, and then retreated abashed behind 
his companion. 

“We are going to war!” cried Matthieu excitedly, 
“and everything else can go to the devil I If this 
road isn’t done in a fortnight, it must stay undone ! I 
want all my loyal men with me 1” 

The men eyed him dully. One old man wiped the 
sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. 

“Ah!” he said, shaking his head. “I’m too old to 
go to the wars, I am.” 

“We’ll leave you behind to defend the women,” said 
Matthieu gaily. “Here, let me look at your tools.” 

A young man handed him his pickaxe. 

Matthieu examined it, swung it round, and gave it 
back. 

“See that they are all in good condition,” he said. 

“Well, you understand,” he added. “In a fortnight 
we start. A muster has been cried for the day after 
to-morrow. Are you arbalesters?” 

“I am, monseigneur.” 

“And I.” 

The others simply nodded. 

“Curse the sluggish fools!” said Matthieu passion- 


94 A Romance of Old Wars 

ately, and he and Eustace rode back towards Chatel- 
fors. “They are less than half alive.” 

The men gazed after them until they were out of 
hearing. 

“War, is it?” said one slowly, leaning on his spade. 
“Eh ! to think of that.” 

“A change,” he said. “Ha ! ha !” 

“Well, to be sure ! What’ll my Nanon say?” 

“Ah!” said the old man, shaking his head. “Ah!” 
“A fortnight’s time.” 

“That’s quick work, that is !” 

“I remember last time I went, it was against the 
English.” 

“I’m too old to go to the wars, I am,” said the old 
man. “I’ve seen a lot of fighting in my day, but I am 
too old now, I am.” 


CHAPTER XII 


When Andre the physician first looked at Dame 
Yolande’s gouty foot, he shook his head gravely. 

*Tt’s very bad — very bad,” he said. 

Dame Yolande watched him anxiously. 

“Very much swollen, h’m — yes,” he repeated. 

“No doubt you are suffering much,” he said, gently 
touching the foot, and snatching away his fingers 
again with a sympathetic indrawing of his breath. 
She winced. 

“I thought I was better this morning,” she said 
despondently, “but I am feeling much worse again 
now.” 

The next day Andre raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Truly, dame,” he said, “I expected improvement, 
but not so marked as this. Do you perceive how 
soothing this lotion has proved ? Why, yesterday you 
could not bear me to lay a finger on your foot, and 
to-day you scarcely shrink from my touch.” 

“You really think I am better?” she asked. 

“Do you not feel better?” he replied. 

“Yes, I think I do — yes,” she said hopefully. 

“Marvellous !” he cried the next time he saw it. 

“Oh, indeed, he is wonderful !” cried Dame Yolande 
to Matthieu. “I only wish Huette would take some 
of his cordials.” 

“Huette?” he echoed indifferently. “Why, is any- 
thing the matter with her ?” 

95 


96 A Romance of Old Wars 

His mother glanced at him. 

“Indeed, I think it may well be difficult to help her,” 
she murmured. “Still, one can never tell what virtues 
there may not be in medicines from the Holy Land. 
However, Huette pays no heed to anything I say. 
She will do nothing I recommend. Indeed,” she said, 
with a laugh, “it seems to me that she does absolutely 
nothing at all !” 

It was true; Huette did nothing. Day after day 
passed by, and she did nothing from morning till 
evening. She did not go to Mass ; she did not say 
her prayers, nor spin, nor sew. For many hours she 
would remain in her room, sitting upon her bed, up- 
right and stiff, her feet stretched out before her, her 
blue skirt falling away from her smooth, narrow lap 
in broken folds to the ground ; her hands held the edge 
of her bed. She was pale, her. half-moon-shaped eyes 
were dull and unseeing, her upper lip drooped sorrow- 
fully over her protruding teeth. 

“Matthieu sees nothing,” said Dame Yolande one 
day. “He doesn’t care for her.” 

“She will make him a very good wife,” said 
Dame Mathilde. “He should consider himself for- 
tunate.” 

Dame Yolande laughed hysterically. 

“He will never care for her,” she said. “It has been 
a mistake from the beginning. And every year it 
becomes more difficult to send her back !” 

'‘Send her hackT The old chatelaine drew herself 
up. “You are a fool, Yolande ! Where will you 
find a better mistress for Chatelfors, I should like to 
know? Besides, Matthieu is betrothed to her. Send 


A Romance of Old Wars 97 

her back, indeed! A Chatelfors send back his be- 
trothed for no reason!” 

“Oh, of course you will never own you have been in 
the wrong!” cried Dame Yolande. 

“I hope I am sufficiently humble to acknowledge my 
mistakes,” retorted Dame Mathilde. “But I see no 
reason to call this a mistake. Of course, Matthieu 
will marry her — unless you do anything to interfere, as 
I fancy you have done already.” 

“No, no ! I like Huette. I — I — of course, I wish 
she were better looking, but — no, no ! I have said 
nothing — nothing at all !” 

Dame Mathilde gave a short laugh, and went to 
Huette’s room. She opened the door without knock- 
ing, and entered. 

Huette looked round to see who it was. 

Dame Mathilde placed her hand on the girl’s 
shoulder. 

“My child,” she said gently, “I have come to tell 
you that you are behaving foolishly.” 

Huette laughed angrily. 

“Whatever you are feeling,” said Dame Mathilde, 
“it can do you no good to sit here alone and idle. 
You will only suffer more.” 

Huette scrutinized the austere face of the old 
woman. 

“Will he marry me ?” she asked. “A week has gone 
by; in another week he starts. Will he marry me? 
Has he sent you to me?” she insisted. 

“No,” said Dame Mathilde. 

“And you, you — have you spoken to him?” 

“No, not yet.” 


98 A Romance of Old Wars 

'‘Not yet!” cried Huette — “not yet! Isn’t it time 
enough? How much longer must I wait? And I am 
ashamed of my years already! Am I to wait till my 
hair is gray before I cover it with a coiffe? Am I to 
waste the best years of my life, childless and unwed? 
Why have you not been to him? Don’t you under- 
stand that I can’t ask him? / cannot go to him and 
say, ‘You owe me your name and a position as your 
wife.’ / cannot say to him, ‘I have been fool enough 

to give you my love. I am waiting for you to ’ 

Fool did I say? Was it foolish? I was brought here 
to be his wife ! I have been taught to live for him ! 
Am I a fool because I have learnt the lesson you all 
ordered me to learn? Yon — yon told me to love him ! 
Go now and tell him to love me. It is my right !” 

“Huette,” said Dame Mathilde, “you are violent and 
unjust. You have done wrong to brood over this by 
yourself.” 

Huette laughed again. 

“It is no good talking,” she cried. “It is time to 
do something! Can’t you understand? In a week 
he will be gone ! You and he between you — you have 
done me a wrong ! You have taken my life, my heart, 
and every hope that I might have had, and you have 
thrown them down to waste! And then you tell me 
I am violent! Do you expect me to sit still and be 
silent, and wait, wait, wait all my life long? Have 
you never felt how sick at heart one grows of waiting 
for what never happens?” Suddenly she slid down 
on her knees, and hid her face in her hands, sobbing. 
“Oh, madame! if he should be killed! If he should 
never come back!” 


A Romance of Old Wars 99 

Dame Mathilde stooped over her and gently stroked 
her bowed head. 

“My child, that is the cry of every woman’s heart 
in these days.” A tear trickled slowly down her 
cheek, straying along the wrinkles. 

The sound of Matthieu’s voice singing, and his 
step along the passage, made them both start. Huette 
rose and hastily dried her tears. 

Dame Mathilde opened the door and called. 

The song stopped. 

“Do you want me, dame ?” 

“Yes, Matthieu.” 

He appeared in the doorway. 

“I am rather hurried ” he began. 

“Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde, disregarding his 
impatience, “do you realize that you have only a week 
left?” 

“Cordieu!” he cried gaily. “That’s why I am in 
a hurry.” 

“My son, before you go grant me the wish of my 
heart. Let me have the happiness of seeing Huette 
your wife.” 

“Eh, mon Dieu, grandmother !” cried Matthieu 
lightly. “Why do that now, when all our thoughts 
and time are given to preparation for the war? Far 
better wait till I come back, when we can have a feast 
and a dance and all the rest of it.” 

“No, Matthieu; we have waited long enough. I 
am an old woman ; I may not live till you return.” 

“What!” cried Matthieu. “I don’t suppose I shall 
be more than two months away.” 

“When one is old, one counts by days !” 


L 0F€ 


loo A Romance of Old Wars 


“Not when one carries years so lightly as you, 
madame.” 

She took his hand. 

“My son, you may not come back yourself.” 

“No fear!” he cried scornfully. “No, Huette ! 
First ril prove myself worthy of you. I will bring 
you honour and fame as a wedding gift.” 

Dame Mathilde tightened her hold on his hand. 

“Matthieu, stay! You are wrong! It is not fair 
to Huette to ask her to wait again. It is not fair to 
leave her like this, betrothed and unwed, when there 
is a chance of your never coming back to marry her.” 

Matthieu flushed; his face suddenly became very 
grave. He pulled his hand away from his grand- 
mother’s and turned to regard Huette, who was stand- 
ing quite still, her eyes cast down. 

“If Madame Huette wishes me to marry her before 
I go,” he said coldly, “she has only to say so.” 

As he spoke Huette glanced at him with a sort of 
terror akin to despair in her look. 

She did not answer. 

“Am I to understand,” he asked, “that you wish for 
this? 

“Will you not wait for my return?” he said, raising 
his eyebrows. 

“Huette, answer me,” he said sternly. “Do you 
wish me to marry you before I start?” 

“No, sir,” she said, and walked across to the window. 

A week later Matthieu rode away. 

In the morning the archers and arbalesters collected 
in front of the church, the carpenters, miners, sad- 
dlers, and other craftsmen with them. The waggons 


A Romance of Old Wars loi 


were driven jolting and grinding upon the road down 
to the foot of the hill, to wait the coming of the 
Sieur. 

The women stood about silently. It was a windy 
day, and their coiffes and their petticoats fluttered. 
Almost every one of them carried a baby, or held a 
child by the hand. 

The Sieur’s horses were ready in the courtyard of 
the inner ward. Maitre Olivier the priest and 
musician, Maitre Giles the physician, and Maitre Paul 
the secretary, were already mounted. The women 
servants and the few men who were to be left behind, 
Andre amongst them, were standing about in groups. 
Dame Yolande, Dame Mathilde, and Huette were wait- 
ing upon the steps. 

At last Matthieu appeared in the doorway, lightly 
armed for travelling. The visor of his crested helmet 
was raised ; his cotte-d’armes was of purple silk. 
Eustace, who was behind him, carried his lance and 
shield. 

Matthieu knelt down before his grandmother. 

“The blessing of God the Father, God the Son, and 
God the Holy Ghost be with you !” she said solemnly. 
“May He preserve you, and give victory to the King’s 
cause !” 

“Oh, Matthieu !’’ gasped Dame Yolande, as he knelt 
to her. “Oh, mon Dieu !” And, hiding her face in 
her hands, she wept piteously. 

“Don’t ! don’t !” said Matthieu, rising and putting his 
arms round her. 

“Come, Yolande !” said Dame Mathilde, gently 
taking her from him. 


102 


A Romance of Old Wars 


Then Matthieu turned to Huette, and, taking her 
hand, he kissed her on the mouth. 

“Au revoir, Huette!” he cried. 

‘‘Au revoir!” she whispered with white lips. 

He ran down the steps, and was stopped at the bot- 
tom by Barbe, who took his head in her hands, and 
kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead, and his lips. 

He laughed, and kissed her cheek in return. 

‘‘Bring my horse !” he ordered. 

“Au revoir !” he cried gaily, as he mounted its back. 

“God keep you, monseigneur!” 

“May the Holy Virgin watch over you !” 

“Au revoir!” 

“Into your saddle, Eustace !” he cried. “Come !” 

“Au revoir !” he shouted again, looking back over 
his shoulder as he passed under the archway into the 
courtyard of the outer ward, Eustace riding after him 
and leading the Sieur’s war-horse. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Matthieu and his men reached Villerou that after- 
noon. The narrow winding streets were crowded ; 
men-at-arms loafed about the taverns; matrons, their 
keys jingling at their sides, bustled to and fro; now 
and then a fine lady passed, followed by her maid ; old 
wrinkled women sat spinning in the doorways, and 
the craftsmen were at work in their cavernous shops, 
while little barefooted children and lean pigs tumbled 
about together in the central gutter. 

The trumpets sounded outside the town gate to an- 
nounce Matthieu’s approach, and everyone paused and 
turned to look down the street. 

“Do you hear? Here come some more! But the 
town will not house so many!” 

“Well, I for one am determined ! If I have to say 
so to the Count himself, I will not have another man 
in my house!” 

“Look! look! Here they come through the gate! 
Look at his helmet ! Oh, the great crest !” 

“Out of the way, you little ragamuffins!” shouted 
Matthieu. 

“Noel, Noel!” screamed the little ragged urchins, 
scuttling along in front of the horses. 

“He! he!” laughed Jehan the shepherd, pushing 
amongst a group of women. 

“Oh ! the breath is being crushed out of me !” 

103 


104 ^ Romance of Old Wars 

“Sainte Vierge! The pig! the pig! The waggon 
is over it! Stop! Stop!” 

'‘He! he! he!” laughed the shepherd, pointing his 
finger. “Look at the pig! The pig is killed! he! 
he !” 

“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu ! are many more coming? 
There is no more room in Villerou. No, not for an 
infant.” 

During the next three days two more of the Count's 
vassals arrived, and on the fourth the whole company 
mustered in the market-place, and, led by the old 
Count, marched out of the town to take the road to 
Arras. 

At first each knight with his esquires rode at the 
head of his men, the baggage-waggons bringing up 
the rear, but as the day advanced the nobles tended 
to collect together in front of the army, while the men 
slouched along each at his own pace in a long irregular 
crowd; a murmur of conversation, interrupted with 
occasional laughter, mingled with the shuffle of feet. 

“God be thanked that we are on the road at last!” 
said Matthieu, gazing over the undulating land to the 
horizon, his eyes brilliant with excitement. ‘‘Dame, 
if a chance of fighting had not come I must have gone 
on a pilgrimage, just to get away.” 

The knights laughed. 

“Did you mean to do penance on foot?” 

“And a scourge your only chance of a scar?” 

Matthieu laughed. Then, pointing into the dis- 
tance, he cried ; 

“Cordieu ! It’s a better kind of pilgrimage this! 
Here’s the road to battle and prowess, and I am way- 


A Romance of Old Wars 105 


faring upon it! Hail, Mary, full of grace! Send 
me the chance of honour!’' 

The older men were discussing the reason of the 
expedition. 

“The rebellion should have been dealt with long 
ago,” said the Count, “and this Artevelde hanged for 
an example. They are a great deal too near England 
to be allowed to take and hold towns in this way, 
stirring up disloyalty on every side.” 

“And it’s my belief the Parisians know the lie of 
the land between Ghent and Paris far too well,” re- 
marked the Sieur de Neblon, slowly stroking his nose, 
while his eyes glared under his stiff gray eyebrows. 
‘Hit the Flemish and the Parisians will fall on their 
knees’ !” 

“He ! he ! he !” laughed the shepherd, running be- 
hind the knights, and pointing at their helmets and 
bright pieces of armour. 

One of the esquires leant forward, and knocked him 
out of the way with the butt end of his master’s lance. 

Jehan stood still and howled. 

“Ha! ha!” laughed the esquires as they rode on. 

“You’d better keep with us,” remarked Nicol the 
blacksmith. 

The shepherd stopped howling and grinned. 

“I shall wait for the women!” he said, and stood 
there till the long line of waggons came up with him. 

“Give me a lift,” cried the shepherd. 

“Be off !” The waggoner shook his whip at him. 
“The mules can hardly get along as it is ! Call this 
a road!” he grumbled. “It’s no more a road than 
any other piece of God’s earth.” 


io6 A Romance of Old Wars 

Behind the waggons came a few women, soberly 
clad with short skirts and square coifYes, carrying 
bundles in knotted cloths, and behind these again fol- 
lowed several others tricked out in coarse finery, but 
who remained a little apart from the wives of the men- 
at-arms and craftsmen. 

“I am going to kill the Flemish,” said the shepherd, 
pushing in amongst the matrons. “Look at my 
arrows. See ! that ’ll go right through a man ! He ! 
he!” 

A young woman shuddered. 

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Jeannette !” she said. 

“Give me a kiss,” he leered, putting his arm round 
her. 

“How dare you !” she cried, violently pushing him 
from her. He fell backwards, knocking his head 
upon the ground. “I’m not one of your good-for- 
nothing jades! They are all over there!” 

And she hurried on, carrying her head stiffly, but 
a moment after she began to cry. 

“Oh, la ! ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed the women, as Jehan 
sat up, dazed and slowly rubbing the back of his head. 
He stayed stupidly gazing after them as they 
walked away into the distance patiently plodding after 
the waggons. Then suddenly he jumped up, and be- 
gan to run after them, whimpering and crying : 

“Wait for me! Wait! Wait! I am coming to 
kill the Flemish! Wait for me!” 

That night they camped. 

The next day, after nearly an hour’s wait at cross- 
roads, they were met by a company of Genoese, and 


A Romance of Old Wars 107 

later they were joined by two other knights and a 
few men-at-arms, also on their way to Arras. The 
weather remained fine till they reached Soissons, but 
when they again started upon their march heavy rain 
was falling. 

The clouds were low and gray, the air was gray, 
and the distance was hidden by the gray monotonous 
rain, The hard, deep ruts became sodden, and yel- 
low puddles collected in the hollows. The men’s feet 
were sucked in at each step, and the mules strained 
against the harness toiling to move the waggons, whose 
wheels, studded with great nails, cut heavily through 
the mud. The knights and archers advanced silently, 
their heads bent against the rain. 

The only sounds were the droning cries of the wag- 
goners to their beasts, the squashing of many hundred 
feet, and the occasional snorting of the horses. 

They camped at sunset. 

“One might as well camp in a river!” grumbled 
Nicol, as he drove the tent-pegs into the mud with a 
mallet. “Here ! you there, take your cursed rope far- 
ther off!” 

“Look here, you must unload that waggon !’" cried 
Matthieu. “Bring that chest into my tent! I am 
wet through! Tete-Dieu! and the rain is coming in 
here too!” 

“Jehan ! Pierre ! Paul ! Guillau-au-me !” shouted the 
old Count de Villerou at the entrance of his tent. 
“Curse you! Why doesn’t someone come? I want 
my armour off ! Do you hear !” 

To the rear of the camp the sutlers dug and 
trenched their fireplaces. Small, shivering boys with 


io8 A Romance of Old Wars 


bellows squatted in the encircling ditch in front of 
each square hole, but the wood was damp, and the pots 
remained cold over the smouldering logs. 

Presently the soldiers began to approach the 
kitchens. 

“Dis done” said a man, knocking one of the boys 
out of his way. “Let’s get warm !” 

“Good idea, mon ami!” said another, “and dry, 
too !’’ 

“How in the name of evil can I cook if you come and 
put out my fire with all the rain you have collected on 
the march!” 

“Dieu I Give me some wood. I’ll make a fire over 
here.” 

“There is no wood to spare !” 

All that night was wet. The following morning 
was cloudy and cold, but during the greater part of the 
day’s march no showers fell ; towards evening, how- 
ever, a gentle, insistent rain began again, lasting 
throughout the night. The men became depressed, 
and grumbled. 

“By my soul! I mean to do something! Next time 
we pass a copse I’ll lay in supplies of wood,” said 
Nicol, as they trudged through the mud on the next 
morning. 

“You’ll have to wait some time for that. I’m think- 
ing, from the look of the country!” 

“Not so long,” said Nicol. “I see — God be thanked 
— I see a village !” 

The news passed from mouth to mouth, and the 
men began to step along more briskly. 

“A village!” 


A Romance of Old Wars 109 

“Do you see, we are coming to another village!” 
“But they have forbidden us to take anything in the 
villages !” 

“Oh, eh! Yes! Let them forbid the rain to 
fall !” 


CHAPTER XIV 


That morning Suzanne had taken her father’s cow 
into the lanes to graze. She led it by a rope, looped 
round its horns, and held slackly in her left hand ; in 
her right she carried a long stick. 

The rain had stopped; a high wind had torn apart 
the great clouds, and was sweeping over the tree-tops 
that bent shuddering before it. Sodden, ruddy leaves 
whirled in the air and fell thickly. 

Suzanne leant against the gusts, her short red 
skirts fluttering. Her black plait of hair had fallen 
forward across her shoulder, and hung down in front ; 
her bare feet were stained with mud. 

She was just sixteen, and she moved with the grace 
of youth and activity. Her dark eyes, set far apart, 
suggested ruminating laughter. Her cheekbones were 
prominent, her face broad, but narrowing to a small, 
pointed, and slightly retreating chin; her mouth was 
little, the lips full, closing with the same impalpable 
smile that lurked in her eyes. Her skin was sun- 
burnt to a clear brown, warming to ruddiness, and her 
black hair, growing far back on her rounded forehead, 
was very smooth, and strained away from her face. 

Suzanne slowly followed the cow as it grazed, 
tearing at the wet grass with a shake of its head, and 
advancing a step at a time along the lane. She 
watched the creature idly, as if thinking of something 
else. 


no 


A Romance of Old Wars 1 1 1 


A gust of wind suddenly buffeted her, whistling in 
her ears, and she half laughed. Then she looked up 
at the clouds flying towards the south with ragged 
edges, here and there revealing a patch of clear sky. 
A ray of sunlight from behind a hurrying cloud, and 
something at a distant curve of the road flashed 
brightly; the next instant a cold shadow again swept 
over the earth. 

But Suzanne remained looking intently through the 
broken hedge into the distance. Something unusual 
was on the road — a dark, moving mass, and it was 
something in that mass that had flashed. She threw 
down the stick and the rope, and climbed a tree that 
overhung the lane a few yards from where she had been 
standing. She scrambled up to where two stout 
branches forked from the main trunk, and, the bare 
flesh of her feet clinging to the rough bark, her arm 
round a bough above her, she stood looking over the 
meadows, and the strip of marsh-land that lay between 
her and a wide bend of the road. 

A long, dense crowd was advancing along it, dark- 
ening the gaps in the uncared-for hedgerows ; in front 
men on horseback, and far away in the rear loaded 
waggons were outlined against the sky. 

‘Tt must be — it isT she thought. ‘‘God help us! 
it was armour that flashed !” 

She clambered down, and for a moment stood in the 
lane hesitating. 

“Oh, I must leave the cow!” she decided, and 
started to run against the blustering wind towards the 
village. The cow looked after her with indifference, 
then again dropping its head, to sweep its nostrils 


1 1 2 A Romance of Old Wars 


snuffing over the grass, it grazed on undisturbed, 
slowly proceeding along the lane. 

As Suzanne approached the first huts she began to 
call and wave, but the wind carried her voice back to 
her. A man and two women, however, perceived her, 
and came towards her. 

“What is it?” they cried. “What has hap- 
pened ?” 

“An army!” she panted. “Look!” and she turned 
round to point. 

“What do you mean? Where?” 

“Along the road — where it winds — beyond the 
marsh !” 

“Oh, me ! oh, me !” cried one of the women. “She 
is right! Look! look! it is an army! and the Sieur 
is away!” 

“What shall we do ! What shall we do !” wailed the 
other. “There is no one to defend us.” 

The man swore at her. 

“Stop crying, you fool !” he said roughly. “Go up 
to the chateau and warn madame. Tell them to open 
the gates. I will begin to get some of our things into 
safety. Suzanne, go you to the church and ring the 
bell !” 

Suzanne nodded and ran up the village street, cry- 
ing out as she went : 

“An army ! an army ! Take your things into safety ! 
The chateau gates are open!” 

A big old man, limping along with a crutch, put 
himself in her way, and as she tried to avoid him in 
the narrow lane he thrust out his long arm and caught 
her by the wrist. 


A Romance of Old Wars 1 1 3 

“What are you doing? Are you mad? Where’s 
the cow?” 

“Let me go” she cried. “An army is coming. I 
must ring the church bell. Let me go.” 

But he clutched her tighter with his huge bony 
fingers. 

“Where’s the cow?” he roared. 

“Eh, well,” she said, tossing her head. “What 
does one cow matter when the whole village may be 
in danger?” 

“You child of the Evil One !” he cried. “You have 
left the cow !” 

“Yes, I have!” she retorted angrily. 

He shouted oath after oath, beating her with his 
crutch, till she sank on her knees in the slush, 
whimpering. 

“You shall go back and fetch it! You coward! 
You white-livered jade! You wanted to save your- 
self, did you! You slut! You worthless, bread- 
devouring, good-for-nothing slut!” 

A few of those peasants who had heard the warning 
came hurrying towards them, driving their cattle, 
sheep, and pigs, dragging chests and bundles, 
sacks of grain and roots, on their way to the cha- 
teau. 

“Are you daft!” screamed an old woman. “Save 
yourself and your goods ! There’s no time to beat the 
girl now !” 

“Dame! and if you must beat her, don’t do it in 
the middle of the road !” cried a rough, swarthy man, 
prodding his pigs. “We want to get by. Eh! eh! 
whoop! whoop!” 


1 14 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Hark! hark! They are quite near! They are 
coming!” 

“Oh, will you let me go!” cried Suzanne passion- 
ately. 

A trumpet sounded, and the old man suddenly pushed 
her from him with an oath, and began to hobble panic- 
stricken towards the chateau gate. 

Suzanne scrambled up, and, rubbing the tears away 
with the back of her hand, ran to the church. She 
rapped at the door of the priest’s house. 

“Sir! sir!” 

The priest opened it himself. He was a foolish- 
looking young man, with scanty, tow-coloured hair. 

“Sir!” she cried eagerly, “an army is coming to- 
wards the village! Even if they are Frenchmen, they 
will rob us! I am going to ring the church bell to 
warn the people!” 

His eyes grew round with terror ; his blunt-featured 
peasant face turned pale. 

“Our hope is in God and His Saints!” he said 
abruptly. “We must pray ! We must pray !” 

He led her quickly into the church, muttering frag- 
ments of prayers, and talking indistinctly. 

“Go — go and ring! Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison! 
I will pray. Ave Maria! They will not come into 
the church. Gratia plena ! It is for the sins of the 
people that this has happened. I warned them ! Oh, 
God ! watch over my speckled hen ! Pater noster, qui 
es in coelis ! Go — go and ring !” 

He pushed her towards the belfry, and, striding up 
to the altar, he knelt down. 

The church was small and dark; the windows were 


A Romance of Old Wars 1 15 

few, very narrow, and filled with painted glass. A 
tiny lamp burned before the statue of the Virgin, and 
another before the high altar. 

The priest in his black gown knelt under the little 
light, his shadow wavering from side to side as the 
flame flickered in the draught. 

Suzanne genuflected and crossed herself ; then she 
went into the belfry, which was beside the church 
door. 

Here, too, it was dark ; high above her a pale gray- 
ness filtered in where the bells were hung, and a twi- 
light entered from the door that opened into the 
church. A closed door, leading into the lane, was 
outlined with light. Every gust of wind shook the 
belfry, howling in the crevices, and making the bells 
vibrate. 

Suzanne seized a rope with both hands, and began 
to ring. 

She gazed up to watch the bells swing in and out, 
as her strong symmetrical arms, slipping up with the 
rising rope, tugged it down again without an effort. 

Between the loud clang of the bell above her and 
its distant ringing on the wind she heard fitfully the 
sound of the village astir: passing voices, rough and 
shrill, a scream, the lowing of cows, the bleating of 
sheep, and the herdsmen’s halloa. 

Then the scuffling of feet, and the sound of running, 
and a hoarse, distant shouting. 

She glanced through the door into the church to 
where the priest knelt alone. She saw him look appre- 
hensively over his shoulder at each fresh outburst of 


noise. 


1 16 A Romance of Old Wars 


Then she looked up once more at the bell. 

Clang! it rang, throbbing above her in the tower, 
and again it swung out into the air. In that moment 
a sudden tumult seemed to have filled all the world 
round her: men’s voices, shouting, laughing, singing, 
the neighing of horses, the heavy rattling of waggons, 
and the discordant blare of trumpets. 

Suzanne became white, and her eyes grew wide with 
fear, but she tightened her hold on the rope and rang 
steadily. 

She glanced again into the church. The priest was 
huddled up, his head bowed on to his knees, his fingers 
in his ears. 

A rush of cold air, a sudden light, and a sense of 
nearness to the clamour outside, made her turn her 
head quickly. 

The door into the lane was wide open, and a 
group of men-at-arms were staring at her with 
surprise. 

In mute dismay she met their look, the bell-rope still 
in her hands. 

“Ho! ho! ho! it’s a girlT 

Uttering a cry, she started to the church door, but 
with a shout they were in the belfry; one held her, 
others were between her and sanctuary. 

“Help! help! Mon pere! Help, sir!” she cried 
with all her force. 

Her voice was strong and mellow. 

“Shut that door !” cried Nicol the blacksmith, who 
held her, nodding towards the church. 

“He! he! he!” laughed the shepherd, doubled up 
with glee. 


A Romance of Old Wars i 1 7 

“Help ! help !“ cried Suzanne, struggling. 

“Ha ! ha ! She seems to have made acquaintance 
with the mud. Look at her skirt!” 

“Tete-Dieu! a pretty sexton!” 

“She would ring me to church any day !” 

“Ye Saints! but she is strong!” 

“Help ! help !” cried Suzanne in despair. 

As she writhed to free herself, she was aware that 
the doorway was darkened, and, looking up, she saw 
a knight standing there, his crested helmet outlined 
against the light. 

“Help me!” she cried. “Free me from them!” 

“Let her go, you scoundrels !” shouted Matthieu. 

He strode in, scattering the men, striking them out 
of his way with heavy fists. He seized Nicol by the 
scruff of his neck, and sent him staggering into the 
lane. 

“Go!” he shouted. 

The men slunk out of the belfry, half sheepishly, 
half grinning; one of them winked at Nicol. 

“If she had been less comely, he wouldn’t have 
interfered,” he remarked. 

Suzanne was leaning against the wall, her face 
hidden. Presently she raised her head, straightened 
herself, and looked round her. The men had gone; 
only Matthieu was there, regarding her with interest. 
But the door into the church was behind him, and she 
saw with alarm that he stood between her and safety. 

“Sir,” she said anxiously, “will you let me pass into 
the church?” 

“Have you no kinder word to say to me than that?” 
he asked reproachfully. 


1 18 A Romance of Old Wars 


“Pardon, sir; I — I thank you. But will you let me 
pass into the church?” 

“You don’t trust me?” he said. 

Suzanne’s terror returned. 

“Oh, sir!” she cried, “if you have any pity in your 
heart, let me pass. I am defenceless ” 

“But I am your protector,” he cried. 

“Let me pass,” she persisted. “My only hope 
is to get into the church I Don’t you hear them 
outside! If I go out, I am lost! They are wild 
beasts !” 

She moved towards him, but he did not stir. 

“Why won’t you trust me?” he asked rather in- 
dignantly. 

She knelt down on both knees, and held out her 
hands. 

“Sir, because you will not get out of my way,” she 
said. “Let me pass, and I shall know you mean me no 
harm. I am at your mercy. You are stronger than 
I, and if I run away from you, I run out to — to them ! 
Oh !” she cried violently, “don’t you know what a tale 
of misery an army leaves behind it? Can’t you guess 
what the women suffer whom it drags with it ? Look 
you here! I am poor; I have no dot! I am often 
hungry and tired and cold ! My father beats me ! I 
don’t love him, or wish to stay with him ! Why should 
I ? But rather than be carried off by those men, I will 
kill myself. It is not much I ask of you. Leave me to 
the evils I know! That is all I want! Go on your 
way, and leave me alone! I don’t ask for money or 
food, or anything but that ! Oh, sir, as you value your 
hope of heaven, don’t take mine from me ! Listen to 


A Romance of Old Wars 1 19 

me ! Let me pass ! Have pity ! In the church I am 
safe !” 

Her voice was rich in mellow tones, deep, strong, 
and vibrating, never hard or shrill, and there was 
a dignity in her primitive, vigorous beauty. 

Matthieu watched her with admiration. 

“By Heaven!” he cried. “Does your father beat 
you ?” 

She nodded. 

“Upon my honour, if I see him, he shall feel the 
weight of my arm,” he cried. 

But she watched him anxiously, and showed no 
gratitude. 

“What is your name?” he asked. 

“Suzanne, sir,” she replied with trembling lips. 

“Don’t — don’t kneel!” he said; and she rose, her 
eyes still beseeching him. 

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave me?” he 
asked ruefully. 

Suzanne grew angry. 

She turned away, and sat on an empty cask, her 
elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands. 

“That’s right,” said Matthieu, with twinkling eyes. 
“You are something of a churl, Suzanne,” he said. 
“I came to help you, and your one wish is to be quit 
of me. Well, you will be quit of me before the day 
is out — perhaps for ever.” 

But Suzanne remained mute. 

“I suppose that is what you want — just that I should 
go, so that you need never think of me again. I do 
not forget so easily.” 

Still she said nothing. 


I 20 A Romance of Old Wars 


“I am going away — yes, far away; but I shall think 
of you,” he said. “When I am sitting down to eat, 
I shall wonder, ‘Perhaps Suzanne is hungry.’ And, 
again, when I warm myself at the fire, ‘Perhaps 
Suzanne is cold.’ But you will never think of me. I 
am going to fight. I may be wounded or taken 
prisoner, but day after day will pass by, and nothing 
will remind you of me. I may be lying dead, but you 
will never know. Only I shall not pass this way ever 
again.” 

She turned a startled glance upon him, and then 
looked down at the floor. 

The light from the open door fell on her lissom 
figure as she sat on the cask. Each loose sleeve fell 
back from her well-shaped arms into a cup of folds 
upon her knees, and she held her pretty chin in the 
hollow of her hands. 

“I think you were born in the night, Suzanne,” said 
Matthieu, “and that is why your eyes are deep and 
dark. 

“Suzanne, look up at me again! Look up! I want 
to see your eyes again. They are not like any that I 
have ever seen. They are alive, breathing light, and 
sighing shadows! Other women have eyes to see 
with, but you — you look out through your eyes ! 

“Look at me again!” he said. “Cordieu ! it is a 
small thing to ask. I want you to look at me as I 
stand here before you ! Do you see my arm ? It can 
deal death ! Yes, and look in my face, and you will see 
that I neither fear to deal death nor to die! Lift up 
your eyes, heartless that you are, and look, if you can, 
at a man who is going to court death !” 


A Romance of Old Wars i2i 

He approached, and pulled one of her hands from 
under her chin. She let him take it. 

Tears filled her downcast eyes, and ran down her 
cheeks. 

“Suzanne,” he said softly, “you are sorry. 

“Child,” he said, “come with me!” 

“No, no!” she whispered. 

“I love you,” he said. “Come with me.” 

“No, no, no!” 

“Come with me! I want you! I cannot bear to 
leave you ! I love you !” 

She started up. 

“Oh, may God punish you for a wicked man!” she 
cried. “I will not! I will not!” 

He took her other hand, and held them both firmly. 

“I will give you everything that heart of woman 
can desire,” he said. “Hungry ! cold ! tired ! Bon 
Dieu! You shall forget that there are such words.” 

“No ! no ! no !” 

“You shall ride with me wherever I go; you shall 
rule my heart, my life! Nothing shall ever come near 
you to hurt you ! You shall be my happiness, and your 
happiness shall be my one thought. Sweetheart, come 
with me, and let our lives be one.” 

“No, no ! Let me go !” she cried. 

“Suzanne, listen to me ” 

“No, no! You are cruel, wicked! You love me! 
Oh, God, protect me ! I know what that means ! The 
love of a moment, gone in a moment! And then can 
all the fine things you have promised wipe out the 
sin !” 

“On my honour ” 


122 A Romance of Old Wars 


“Your honour r she cried scornfully. 

“I will not go without you !” he cried. 

“I will kill myself!” she replied. “I am not so 
afraid of death as I am of you.” 

He tightened his hold on her wrists. 

She glanced up at him, and shrank from the sight 
of his stern face, utterly devoid of any tenderness. 
Was it possible that he had ever smiled! 

“You little fool !” he said passionately. 

She wrenched at her hands, but could not free them. 
Then she knelt down again. 

“Sir,” she pleaded, “let me go ! It is nothing to you 
to let me go ! To-morrow you will have forgotten that 
you ever saw me, but Heaven will remember your 
goodness. I am a peasant, and my gratitude can 
mean nothing to you, but the Blessed Virgin will re- 
ward you. Sir, my life is not so happy that it would 
be any great loss, but still death is a terrible thing ! I 
do not want to die !” 

“You talk of death!” he cried. “You do not know 
what death is.” 

“Then I will find out,” she said. 

“And then it will be too late,” he cried. “Then, 
whatever unknown terror may face you, you cannot 
turn back! If you pry into the ways of death, your 
eyes grow blind at the sight. If you listen to the 
secrets of death, your ears are shut to everything 
else. Child ! do you not know that the life that goes 
out of you leaves you terrible, and that the dead form 
even of a young girl will awe the living ! Maybe even 
I — I who love you, as I hold you here ! — even I might 
shrink to touch your dead hand, and should be left all 


A Romance of Old Wars 123 

the more desolate because the living and the dead are 
separated by horror !” 

“Then let me go !” she cried, “or I swear I will kill 
myself.” 

“Suicide is a sin !” he said. 

“A sin !” she cried wildly. “Do you talk to me of 
sin ! Which way shall I turn and not sin ! How shall 
I escape when life and death are both sinful! Shall 
I live or die unblest? At least death is the quicker 
done. Oh, go! go! and leave me, or I shall curse 
you, and that again is a sin! and it is you! — you! you! 
who are pushing me down to hell !” 

Suddenly he drew her towards him. 

“Suzanne,” he said, “I will marry you.” 

She laughed angrily. 

‘^Your 

“I mean it ! I will marry you !” 

“You, a noble, marry a peasant? Do you think 
I am fool enough to believe the first lie you can think 
of? Go! go! Oh, leave me!” 

“You may be serf for all I care !” he said passion- 
ately. “Do you hear? I say I will marry you! I 
will not leave you! I will not let you go! Do you 
think I cannot do as I like ?” 

She raised her dark eyes, and looked him full in the 
face. 

“How am I to know that you have no wife at home ?” 
she said. 

He reddened. 

“Oh, 3'^es ! Take me into the church — the priest 
is there,” she cried frantically. “Swear a lie to me, to 
him, and to God! You are a great noble! You can 


124 ^ Romance of Old Wars 

do as you like ! Who am I to say 'no’ to your whims, 
even though they cost me my honour! Then, when 
you are tired of me, you can go back to your lady- 
wife, and I can starve homeless on earth, and too 
angry at heart to hope for God’s forgiveness ! Oh, 
yes ! play with me, ruin me I deceive me and her I 
What does it matter? We are only women!” 

Matthieu was white with rage; his eyebrows were 
raised, his eyelids low over his glittering eyes. 

"Be quiet!” he said quickly, and drew her towards 
the church door, the latch of which was not fastened. 
His scarcely restrained violence half cowed, half ex- 
cited her. 

He kicked the door open with a bang. 

The priest was still crouching before the altar. At 
the noise he leapt up, and started to escape. 

"Stay where you are!” shouted Matthieu, and he 
strode up the church leading Suzanne. 

At the altar steps he stopped. He scanned the 
shivering, white-faced priest, and his sudden smile 
flashed like light into his face. 

"Look here,” he said. "Before God, and as I value 
my immortal soul, I have no wife. Come, marry us.” 

"But ” gasped the priest. 

"Marry us!” cried Matthieu. "Are you deaf or 
daft? or do people never get married in this village?” 

The priest shrank timidly from him. 

“I — I Are you willing?” he faltered to 

Suzanne. 

Matthieu took a ring off his finger ; her hands were 
large with rough work, and it fitted. He eyed her 
with a whimsical triumph. 


A Romance cf Old Wars 125 

“Come, make haste!” he cried to the priest. “Do 
you think I don’t know my own mind?” 

The priest started, and glanced from one to the 
other in dismay. 

“It is not usual ” he began. 

“Who am I that I should do what is usual?” cried 
Matthieu. “Is it unusual to love at first sight? Is it 
unusual for a knight to love a peasant? Is it un- 
usual to marry whom you love? Cordieu! they may 
be unusual, but these are actions worthy of a knight, 
and, let me tell you, I know no other standard. Come, 
do your part.” 

“Have — have you confessed lately?” asked the priest 
tremulously. 

“Dame! Two days ago!” 

“Sir — monseigneur — I beseech — I — I ” stam- 
mered the priest. Then, taking courage, he said 
desperately: “Suzanne! think! Are you willing?” 

She looked up at Matthieu, and met the challenge 
in his eyes. 

The light of the altar-lamp gleamed upon his 
crested helmet, and made blurred pools of light in his 
armour. 

“Speak,” said the priest. 

“I think so,” said Suzanne. “God be with me! 
Yes !” 


CHAPTER XV 


Matthieu led Suzanne out of the church, and 
through the churchyard, where the unharnessed mules 
and horses were grazing ; the waggons were all drawn 
up together outside the fence. 

The narrow lanes were crowded with drunken 
soldiers hacking the doors and roof-beams from the 
cottages, and chopping them into firewood, handing 
platters of food and tables and benches out through 
the gaping doorways and windows, and ransacking 
chests with ribald mockery at their contents. In one 
place several of the women who followed the army 
were turning over some good-wife’s wardrobe with 
shrill comments, and near by half a dozen men-at-arms 
dressed up in skirts were dancing in front of a burn- 
ing hut. 

None of the villagers were to be seen. 

Suzanne glanced up at the chateau, where she knew 
they had taken refuge. Its sombre gray wall and 
closed gate rose forbiddingly above her, and tears 
suddenly filled her eyes. 

Matthieu hurried her across to the tavern, knocking 
the brawling men out of his way with a prompt and 
heavy hand. Suzanne submitted in silence, pressing 
close to him, her head bowed. 

At the tavern door he turned and contemplated her 
whimsically. 

“So you are my wife !” 

126 


A Romance of Old Wars 127 

Her lips quivered. 

‘‘Are you afraid?’’ he asked gently. “Don’t heed 
these ruffians,” he said. “I will not let them hurt 
you.” And he pushed open the door. 

Inside, the Count de Villerou, Bertrand, and four, 
or five knights were sitting at the oblong table, their 
gauntlets and helmets on the straw-covered floor be- 
side them. 

A fire crackled in the great chimney, fitful flames 
leaping up amongst gray, coiling smoke, which every 
gust of wind drove in clouds out into the room. 

Maitre Paul the secretary was sitting in the chimney 
corner, coughing and blinking as he wrote his account 
of the last march. 

Rough wooden and pewter cups and jugs of wine 
stood on the table, and in the kitchen beyond Gaston 
was turning a goose on the spit, while Simon and a 
couple of other cooks were peering into every cup- 
board and jar, and exchanging remarks with their 
comrades outside the window. 

“Ha !” cried the Count as Matthieu appeared on the 
threshold. “Here he is !” 

“Eh, Matthieu! what have you been doing?” cried 
Bertrand. 

“Ho I ho ! ho I do you ask him ?” 

“Where did you find her?” 

“Bon Dieu ! he is young, but he has a keen eye !” 

Matthieu sat down at the end of the table, and 
pulled Suzanne, cowed and bewildered, on to the bench 
beside him. He reached across the table for a jug of 
wine, filled a cup, and drank. Then he eyed the com- 
pany defiantly. 


128 A Romance of Old Wars 


“What have I been doing? I’ve married a wife!” 

Maitre Paul started, and peered through the smoke 
from Matthieu to Suzanne, and from Suzanne to Mat- 
thieu. The knights broke into a guffaw of laughter. 

“Bravo!” 

“Ho ! ho ! ho ! a wifeT 

“Well done! Upon my honour!” 

“Here’s to you and your wifeT 

Suzanne glanced at the rough, hilarious faces round 
her, ruddy in the firelight, blurred by the smoke, and 
she flushed, stung with shame. 

The Count de Villerou banged his fist on the table. 

‘‘Married r he exclaimed. “Do you say married!'' 

“Married !” repeated Matthieu fiercely. 

“Married!" cried the Count again. 

“This is my wife,” said Matthieu. 

“Married!" roared the Count. “You young fool!” 

“Cordieu !” cried Matthieu, leaping to his feet. “No 
one shall call me that !” 

The men started up to interfere, and the Sieur de 
Neblon, who was sitting at the corner of the table be- 
side Matthieu, pulled him back on his seat. 

“Sit down! Sit down!” 

“Your liege lord — take care !” 

“Don’t lose your temper for a word.” 

“I have a right to choose my own wife!” cried 
Matthieu hotly. 

Suzanne was very pale ; her hand was pressed 
against her throat. 

A sudden shout of laughter resounded from the 
kitchen, as Simon discovered a hare, hidden in the 
flour-bin. 


A Romance of Old Wars 129 

“Curse your noise!” cried the old Count angrily. 
“Be quiet out there!” 

“Married !” he growled. “Do you expect the Pope 
to grant you a divorce at any moment you want it?” 

Matthieu gave vent to the short laugh that was like 
his grandmother’s, and took more wine. 

“Eh, well!” cried the Sieur de Neblon, grinning. 
“There’s this advantage in the schism : if one Pope 
won’t grant it you, you can go to the other.” 

Another uproar arose from the kitchen. 

“Give us more wine than that!” shouted the men 
outside the window. 

“Holy Virgin! Pll get in and help myself!” 

“You’re too fat ! You’d stick half-way.” 

“Not I ! Pll burst the window-frame.” 

“Will you be quiet, you scoundrels !” cried Matthieu 
good-humouredly. 

He drank again; his eyes sparkled and he laughed 
recklessly. 

Turning to Suzanne, he took her hand, and cried: 

“Messeigneurs, I present you to my wife.” 

She let him hold her hand in his hot grasp. Her 
dark eyes were troubled, and filmy with unshed tears. 

“Noel !” cried the knights. “Here’s to the Dame 
de Chatelfors! Ha! ha! ha!” 

Again the Count hit the table with his fist and 
swore. 

“It’s impossible! I’ll not believe it! It’s a jest!” 

“Jest!” cried Matthieu with increasing gaiety. “It 
is no jest! I’ve married her with ring and priest’s 
blessing ! 

“I don’t deny,” he said whimsically, “that we know 


130 A Romance of Old Wars 

nothing of each other, my wife and I, except that 
I said ‘Yes’ and she said ‘No.’ ” 

“Ha! ha! was that why you married her?” 

Matthieu raised his eyebrows with a whimsical look. 

“It was, upon my honour.” 

Suzanne lifted apprehensive, questioning eyes to his 
face. 

“And I declare,” he cried, “it’s as good a reason 
as any other. I bade her marry me, and she said 
‘No!’ She flung the word at me. No! no! no! It 
was alive ! It was pleading, angry, distrustful, cold, 
frightened, scornful, mocking ! It looked out through 
her eyes, it trembled on her lips, it shone round her 
like a halo ! She breathed it into the air till one stifled, 
and every fibre tingled as with a frosty wind! She 
cast it at my feet with both hands, a most unkindly gift 
that rebounded back to her keeping, leaving me 
bruised, and not a bit the richer! Ma foi! A ‘No’ 
like that was worth overcoming. The mere breath of 
it roused me like wine ! It stirred my heart, inflamed 
my brain! It wounded me, poisoned me, enchanted 
me, and drove me crazed ! It resisted my will as cut- 
ting steel resists the hand, leaving a gash ! But I hold 
it now ! — frightened and half vanquished, but palpi- 
tating yet, ready to spring into life and defy me. But 
I hold it my captive, and nothing in heaven or earth 
can ransom it.” 

“Noel! NoH!” roared the knights, thumping the 
table, drinking, tipsily splashing wine into their cups, 
and drinking again. 

Suzanne was gazing at Matthieu, her mouth a little 
open. 


A Romance of Old Wars 131 

Gradually a slow mirth dawned and grew in her face, 
and her lips parted in a smile. 

Then all at once, flinging back her head, she began 
to laugh. 

She laughed — her pretty lips parted, her eyes bright 
with tears of merriment that overflowed and trickled 
down her cheeks — an irresistible, whole-hearted laugh- 
ter, a laughter that tossed from note to note of her 
mellow voice, a laughter that begot laughter, that 
penetrated above, below, and in the midst of the men’s 
hoarse voices, as a leaping flame through heavy, hang- 
ing smoke. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Early next morning the army prepared to leave the 
village. 

Matthieu placed Suzanne on one of the uncovered 
carts, and then left her. 

She seated herself on a bundle of canvas behind 
the rounded shoulders of a burly driver, and, abashed 
by the sound of his voice as he grumbled to the pass- 
ers-by, to his mules, and to himself, she dared not 
speak to him, but sat silently looking beyond him to 
where Matthieu was ordering his men. His hack was 
restive, and wheeled round and round in the midst 
of the confused throng, pulling and backing; and as 
the horse turned Matthieu twisted himself in the saddle 
to face his men, his helmet gleaming, a sharp frown 
between his black brows. 

All round her the air hummed with the sound of 
voices, crossed by the louder shouts of those in com- 
mand and the discordant blare of trumpets. 

Presently she discerned a larger and more coherent 
movement. Somehow the main body of men were 
united into a rough order, and a massive line began to 
unwind from the centre of confusion, proceeding along 
the lane with a fringe of stragglers, who by degrees 
were also absorbed into the ranks. 

Then, one by one, the carts began to move. The 
waggoners cracked their whips, hoarsely hallooed to 
132 


A Romance of Old Wars 133 

their beasts, and slowly the nail-stubbed wheels ground 
through the mud. 

“Oh! Oh! We are going !’’ gasped Suzanne, and 
after one half-terrified look at the grim chateau, and 
devastated cottages, she covered her face with her 
hands. She did not lift her head till the village lay 
behind them. 

The gusty breeze refreshed her hot cheeks. 

“What is done, is done,” she thought. “I will not 
look back. 

“I am not afraid,” she murmured to herself, twist- 
ing the ring on her finger. “No, I am not afraid.” 

About an hour later she grew restless. Her limbs 
were cramped, and she was aching from the slow, 
heavy jolt of the cart; also, the taciturn driver was 
a dull comrade. 

She glanced back at the group of soldiers' wives 
with longing eyes. 

“I would rather be walking with them,” she thought. 
“Surely it would be no great harm.” 

She hesitated and looked back again. 

“I long to be moving,” she thought. “And it would 
be pleasanter with them. 

“Surely it could be no harm,” she murmured again, 
and she rose to her feet. Steadying herself with both 
hands, she scrambled over the chests to the back of 
the cart, and let herself down into the road. She 
waited there, smiling shyly, till the women reached 
her. 

“It’s so dull by myself,” she said to three who were 
walking together. “May I stay with you ?” 

They eyed her disapprovingly, and did not reply. 


134 


A Romance of Old Wars 


Suzanne was troubled ; she said nothing, but began 
to walk along a little behind them. 

Presently one of them, an elderly matron, with thick 
eyebrows and underhanging jaw, turned to her and 
said : 

“Why don’t you go back? There is nothing to 
hinder you now.” 

“No, indeed!” cried Jeannette, the young wife. 
“None of us would prevent you.” 

“We’ve not been two hours gone,” said Agnes, a 
weather-beaten woman with no front teeth. “If you 
turned now, you would be safe at home before mid- 
day.” 

“Oh, good-wives!” cried Suzanne. “But he mar- 
ried me.” 

They stared at her in amazement. 

“Eh?” cried Marie, her underhanging jaw falling. 

“You poor simpleton!” she cried, the next moment. 
“And you believe him?” 

“But it is true!” cried Suzanne, holding out her 
hand. “He has wed me with this ring, and Pere 
Antoine — our priest at home — he blessed us there, in 
the church !” 

“Holy Virgin !” 

“It is gold !” 

“And an emerald !” 

“And pearls!” 

“But who is he?” 

“The Sieur de Chatelfors,” said Suzanne. 

“Bon Dieu!” cried Jeannette. “Then ” 

Marie shook her head dolefully. 

“Then you will be a lady ?” cried Jeannette. 


A Romance of Old Wars 135 

“I am sorry for you/’ said Marie gloomily. 

“At least I am a wife,” said Suzanne. 

“Eh, yes ! and you have married vexation and 
sorrow.” 

“You cannot tell,” said Suzanne. 

“Holy Virgin!” cried Marie. “What do you 
expect? He is a noble, and accustomed to fine ladies. 
Just now he is pleased with your pretty face, but 
presently he will find out that you are only one of us, 
and ignorant and rough. You don’t know how to 
wear fine clothes, or even how to eat with little mouth- 
fuls ! God never meant nobles to mate with peasants ! 
It’s not natural, and it’s you that will suffer, not he.” 

“I will do all he tells me,” replied Suzanne. 

“Yes, and nine times out of ten he’ll expect you to 
know without telling,” said Agnes. 

“I will try to copy our chatelaine at home.” 

“Oh, yes ! with your rough big hands, and your great 
steps!” jeered Marie. 

“Did you wed him willingly?” asked Jeannette. 

Suzanne flushed. 

“I — I am not sure,” she said. 

“Are you not afraid to leave your home with a 
stranger?” 

“I take what comes,” said Suzanne, smiling. 

“You’ve little happiness to hope for,” sighed Marie 
gloomily. 

“Why do you say that, good-wife?” cried Suzanne. 
“It is time enough to cry out when one is hurt. I 
am not hoping for anything, but neither will I dread 
anything. For the moment I am well content. I like 
walking along strange roads, and I have had a full 


136 A Romance of Old Wars 

meal. If he beat me, well, Fd rather that he did than 
my father. Let me be. 

“Besides,” she added, “I think I trust him.” 

Marie snorted. 

“Poor fool !” she said, shrugging her shoulders. 

That evening Matthieu sent Maitre Paul to fetch 
Suzanne. The secretary found her seated in an empty 
tilted cart, watching the business of camping. 

The camp-master and his men were shouting orders 
and abuse; a few rough huts weie still being ham- 
mered together, but most of the tents were already set 
up ; the merchants were unpacking their wares, and 
spreading stalls beneath awnings in a line on the out- 
skirts of the camp ; the little goujats were coming and 
going with pitchers of water that splashed over at 
every step. 

“Madame, monseigneur would speak with you. He 
bids me pray you to follow me to his tent,” said the 
secretary with a bow. 

“Oh, Fm coming!” exclaimed Suzanne, scrambling 
down in a hurry, and she followed him with her long, 
swinging step, her bare feet making no sound on the 
grass. As they went the men-at-arms turned to stare 
at her insolently. 

“Ho! ho!” cried Nicol, catching her by the arm. 
“Why, it’s the pretty bell-ringer!” 

“Take care!” said Maitre Paul. “Don’t touch her.” 

“What, is she a prude?” 

The men guffawed loudly, but the secretary, draw- 
ing up his shambling form, cried: “This is our cha- 
telaine, the Dame de Chatelfors.” 

“Ha ! ha ! ha ! do you expect us to believe that ?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 137 

“Tell us something true/' 

“We are not innocents.” 

“Does the Sieur’s wife walk without shoes?” 

“It is true,” said Maitre Paul, clearing his throat. 
“Monseigneur has wed her.” 

The men gaped incredulously at the secretary, and 
then at Suzanne. 

“But she is a peasant !” 

“Who knows if she is not a serf?" 

“The Sieur ennobles the woman he marries,” said 
Maitre Paul. 

“Permit me, madame,” he added, and taking her 
rough hand he held it out for them to see the ring. 
They gathered round in silence. “You know the 
Sieur's ring,” he said, his voice dying away in a husky 
whisper. 

Suzanne’s face was wistful. 

“It was his will to wed me,” she thought. “It is 
only he that matters.” 

Suddenly the boy Gaston broke into shrill laughter. 

“Oh, la ! what will Dame Mathilde say ?” 

Several of the men laughed also, but Nicol scowled. 

“And Madame Huette?” cried Gaston. 

“He! he! he!” sniggered the shepherd gleefully. 
“Won’t Madame Huette cry !” 

Nicol swung round and dealt him a blow on the 
mouth. Jehan howled, and Gaston ducked away to a 
safe distance from the blacksmith’s threatening 
fist. 

“Come, madame,” said the secretary. 

“But wait, please, sir! I want to know,” said 
Suzanne, “who is Dame Mathilde?” 


138 A Romance of Old Wars 

“She is the old chatelaine,” said Maitre Paul, “our 
Sieur’s grandmother.” 

“And who is Dame Huette?” she asked, her voice 
shaking a little. 

“Dame Huette is the Sieur’s betrothed,” cried Gas- 
ton shrilly. “Only he won’t marry her for all that 
Dame Mathilde may say !” 

Suzanne questioned the faces round her ; one or two 
of the men nodded, and murmured together. 

“Eh, no, he wouldn’t marry her.” 

“She’ll go back to Richecour now.” 

“No! To be sure, he has always been set against 
wedding her.” 

“Eh! is that so?” ejaculated Suzanne sadly. 

“Come, madame,” said Maitre Paul, and she fol- 
lowed him to Matthieu’s tent. 


CHAPTER XVII 


The Sieur de Chatelfors’ tent was divided into two 
small compartments on each side of a large square 
one, and separated from it by red curtains. 

A table prepared for supper, and lit by two candles 
set upon straight silver pricket candlesticks, stood in 
this centre room. A couple of carved elbow-chairs 
were placed before it, and on one of these Matthieu 
was sitting, clothed in a purple gown, his feet on a 
mat of red stuff. He had taken off his armour, and 
through the half-drawn curtain that shut off the left- 
hand alcove the servants could be seen polishing it. 

Behind him, against the back of the tent, a chest 
stood open, and in it gold-patterned gray and green 
cottes-hardies and cottes-d'armes were tumbled to- 
gether in disorder. Amongst their folds were to be 
seen the corner of a silver casket, a pair of gauntlets 
with stiff, crooked fingers, and a leathern flask. 

The tent was supported by two poles, from each of 
which hung a lantern, a moon-like light shining 
through the opaque horn sides. Joseph the tailor 
squatted cross-legged beneath one of these, designing 
women’s dresses, and against the pole beside him 
Eustace de Soulon was leaning, idly watching a couple 
of merchants unpacking their wares. Maitre Olivier 
the priest was on his knees in a dusky corner tell- 
ing his beads with silently moving lips and closed 
eyes. 


139 


140 A Romance of Old Wars 

The secretary lifted the flap of the tent, and Suzanne 
entered out of the cold gray of the early evening ; then 
he let the curtain fall behind her, and she advanced 
into the pale light of the horn lantern, looking round 
her in wonderment. 

Eustace straightened himself, and examined her 
curiously. 

“Monseigneur “ began Maitre Paul; but Mat- 

thieu, leaping to his feet, strode to meet her, and took 
her hands in his. 

“Come and sit down,’’ he said, and drew her to- 
wards the chairs. 

Joseph, intent on his drawing, was in her way; 
Matthieu kicked him to one side. 

“Why don’t you move, you hound !” he cried. 
“Don’t you see madame ?” 

The tailor scrambled up. 

“Pardon, monseigneur,” he mumbled, bewildered, 
and then fell on his knees, sprawling about to collect 
his scattered designs. 

Maitre Paul looked on blinking, then, shuffling to 
a low square stool, he pulled his manuscript out of 
a flat bag that lay beside it, and prepared to write. 

“Sit down, Suzanne,” said Matthieu. 

She looked doubtful. 

“On the chair ?” she asked. 

“Where else?” 

“I don’t like to.” 

“Why not?” 

“It seems so — so bold, monseigneur.” 

He laughed. 

“Do you forget that you are my wife ?” he said. 


A Romance of Old Wars 141 

“Oh, no, no!” 

“You are a lady of high degree, Suzanne I a chate- 
laine ! a knight’s love ! Cordieu ! would you sit on a 
three-legged stool? If niy lady is so humble-minded 
she will force me into the dust, and I shall have to 
crawl on my knees like any whining pilgrim.” 

“I will sit down,” said Suzanne gravely. “But I — 
I think you are mocking me.” 

“And if I am, sweetheart, it is because I love you so 
seriously that I must needs laugh.” 

She looked up at him much puzzled, and met his 
merry black eyes twinkling under his marked brows. 
Then she broke into laughter at a sudden thought. 

“Ma foi I” she cried. “I think I should mock at 
myself if I could see me now sitting here with my 
petticoat all stained with mud, and ragged, and my 
feet bare.” 

“Oh, by my soul !” he cried, “you must throw that 
gown away. It isn’t yours. It belonged to one Su- 
zanne, who was someone yesterday, but to-day is no 
longer known in her old home or out of it! And, 
Suzanne, Dame de Chatelfors, has no right to be dis- 
guised in such garments as these! Here, you fellows, 
show us what you have got ! Spread out your things 
so that madame may see them ! Choose, Suzanne, 
choose ! Choose what you want to make your gowns 
— as many as you like !” 

Suzanne was sitting very upright, her hands in her 
lap, but her stiffness relaxed as the merchants dragged 
their rolls of stuff into the space in front of the table, 
and began to display their wares, holding up each 
piece in turn, and shaking it into folds. She leant for- 


142 A Romance of Old Wars 


ward, her arms on the table, her eyes wide and bright 
with interest. 

“Will madaine look at this brocade? It is a colour 
that would suit madame ! and a rich stuf¥ ! an enduring 
stuff!” 

“Madame, deign to consider this velvet ! notice the 
soft folds! The winter is coming, too, and velvet is 
warm !” 

“Eh! if madame wants velvet, I have here a red 
velvet ” 

“I like that,” interrupted Suzanne, pointing. 

“Does madame mean this? Ah! a beautiful 
silk ” 

“No,” said Suzanne. “The blue and green. Yes, 
that,” nodding as one of the merchants pulled the 
gleaming brocade out from the heap. 

She raised her dark eyes to Matthieu’s face. 

“I like bright things,” she said. 

One after another stuffs to make her gowns, coiffes, 
and cloaks were tossed over to the tailor, jewelled but- 
tons were bought for her, fine embroideries, scent, 
girdles, and purses, an ivory comb, and a carved ivory- 
backed mirror. 

“Bring me those designs!” cried Matthieu to Jo- 
seph. “Yes! yes! Take madame’s measure. 

“When will the gowns be done?” he cried. “I will 
pay you double if one is ready by to-morrow night, 
and the coiffe to match !” 

“Monseigneur, working all night, and in the carts 
during the march to-morrow ” 

“I tell you I will have it to-morrow night!” cried 
Matthieu. 


A Romance of Old Wars 143 

‘'Monseigneur — eu — eur 

“Don’t you understand?” cried Matthieu. “Get to 
work.” 

The tailor spread his hands and shrugged his shoul- 
ders. Then, gathering up the stuffs, he sent for a 
couple of assistants, and settled himself in a corner 
of the tent. 

Outside the camp was growing quiet. There was a 
low occasional murmur of gruff voices, and the soft 
padding of passing feet. 

“Bring supper,” said Matthieu. 

Eustace bestirred himself, and called for the serv- 
ants ; he received the dishes at the door of the tent, 
and brought them to the table. 

“It is true, then?” asked Suzanne. “I am a fine 
lady ?” 

Matthieu nodded. 

“And am I really to wear those beautiful 
clothes ?” 

He nodded again. 

“And eat with you?” as Eustace placed a spiced 
dish between them. 

She took a mouthful, and then looked in astonish- 
ment from Matthieu to Eustace. 

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she cried. “I never tasted any- 
thing so good.” 

Matthieu laughed, but the esquire raised his eye- 
brows contemptuously. 

Presently Suzanne looked up again to ask a ques- 
tion. 

“Monseigneur, where are we going?” 

“To Arras first.” 


144 ^ Romance of Old Wars 

“And then?’^ 

“Then we shall cross the Lys, and fight the Flem- 
ish/’ 

She was silent for a moment. 

“And after that?” she asked. 

“After that ? Eh, who knows ? Perhaps to Paris ! 
perhaps to Chatelfors.” 

“Where, no doubt. Dame Hiiette will greet Dame 
Suzanne as a sister,” sneered Eustace. 

“Curse Huette !” shouted Matthieu, banging the 
table with his fist. “And curse you too !” 

“No, no,” said Suzanne. “I — I am sorry for Dame 
Huette.” 

“You!” cried Matthieu roughly. “What do you 
know about her ?” 

“I know all about her,” said Suzanne calmly. 

“Who told you?” 

“They out there.” 

Matthieu pushed back his chair. 

“Ell have their tongues cut out for vile, evil-speak- 
ing scoundrels !” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Suzanne, shocked. “Would you 
take from them all chance of confessing their sins?” 
she cried. “That is unchristian and cruel! I do 
not like it.” 

Matthieu forgot his anger. 

“Suzanne! Suzanne!” he cried passionately. “By 
what grace has Heaven made you so adorable?” He 
poured out wine and drank it. “Maitre Olivier!” he 
cried. “Leave your prayers, and play to us. I want 
music! Get your vielle. Do you hear? Maitre 
Olivier r 


A Romance of Old Wars 145 

The priest opened his blue eyes with a scared look, 
and he got up quickly from his knees. His rosary 
was fastened to his girdle, and he let it fall clattering 
to his side. He pushed his biretta to the back of his 
head, brushing up his ragged fair hair against it ; then 
he glanced round vaguely, as if wondering what to do 
next. 

“Your vielle, man !” cried Matthieu, pointing to 
where it stood propped against the tent-pole. 

“Yes, yes, monseigneur,” said Maitre Olivier, flur- 
ried ; and, taking the vielle, he sat down on the ground 
to play. Slowly and evenly he began to turn the handle 
with his right hand, and the strings hummed upon a 
low blurred note. Then with his left-hand fingers he 
pressed the small keys along the neck of the instru- 
ment, and three thin notes at diminished intervals, and 
one at a fourth below, penetrated the droning accom- 
paniment in a mournful, persistent little tune — a tune 
unconcerned with any human emotion, like some lone- 
ly, purblind being, indifferent to everything but the 
single idea that gave it existence. Matthieu listened 
for a few moments ; then suddenly he bent forward 
towards Suzanne, and took her hand. He began to 
talk very low and fast. 

“Suzanne, tell me you love me! Or am I only 
an intruder in your life? Do you wish I had never 
passed by your way? Would you have rather stayed 
in the little village, ignorant of everything but the 
lack of a meal and the passing of the seasons? Do I 
not offer you a better life? Little churl, tell me you 
are glad to come with me. Lie to me, if you like, so 
long as it is a kindly lie ! On my honour 1 I would 


146 A Romance of Old Wars 

rather offer gifts to your disdain than to any other 
woman’s kindness.” 

Someone passing outside the tent brushed up 
against the canvas, and it bulged inward. 

“Come, let us bargain. I have given you alf I have 
— my name, my life, my possessions, my sword, my 
honour ! Give me a kind word in return, or I am 
indeed destitute. Make believe that you love me ! 
Deceive yourself, if you can ! I will be content with 
the semblance of love !” 

Someone else passed outside, carrying a lantern, 
and his distorted shadow slid over the folds of the 
canvas and vanished. 

“Cordieu ! what am I saying? Content with the 
semblance! Not I, Suzanne. I have taken you from 
your past because I want your present. I ivill have 
your heart ! I command you to love me ! And I say 
you shall follow me wherever I go! You shall come 
with me to foreign lands, amongst enemies, to danger, 
to glory. You are no longer your own! You have 
married me — ^willingly or unwillingly I do not know — 
it doesn’t matter — I do not ask. But you are my wife ; 
you have no right to withhold your love ! I claim it ! 
and I claim your laughter and tears, and your hopes, 
your thoughts, yourself ! Ma mie, do I frighten you?” 
he said with sudden gentleness. “But if I bid you 
share my life, it will be with your hand in mine, with 
my shield before you, and all that I have shall be 
yours.” 

He filled a goblet with wine and offered it to her. 

“Suzanne, drink with me, and I shall know that you 
are not afraid.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 147 

Her big shining eyes met his in silent surrender, 
as she drank the wine he held to her lips. 

Then all at once Maitre Olivier began to sing in a 
low tone. His voice was mellow and a little husky. 
He sang as if dreaming aloud, a crooning peasant 
song, with long meandering turns, and a grave pause 
after each phrase. 

Matthieu put down the cup and listened, staring at 
nothing. Presently Maitre Paul paused with his pen 
in the air, and listened, blinking his short-sighted 
eyes. 

The tailor sighed, put down his work, and took it up 
again; then he, too, let his hands rest idle, and lis- 
tened. 

Maitre Olivier sang with his chin in the air and his 
eyes half closed; but at each pause he bent his head 
to watch his fingers on the keys of the vielle. 

There was no expression in his face and no expres- 
sion in his sweet, husky voice. 

The song meant nothing, and, like the tune he had 
played, it was impersonal and unconcerned with any 
human emotion. 

But by degrees everyone became silent, and all the 
small sounds of movement ceased. Nothing was to be 
heard but the monotonous peasant song, dimly famil- 
iar, awaking vague memories and vague feelings with 
which it had nothing to do. 

Suzanne was sitting close up to the table, her arms 
lying upon it. The two straight candles framed her 
flushed face ; their light was caught in her ruffled hair, 
surrounding her head with a faintly glistening dark 
haze. 


148 A Romance of Old Wars 

As the priest sang, excitement faded out of her eyes, 
and they became tired and wistful. 

Presently rain began to fall with a gentle rustling, 
and slowly dripped through the roof of the tent. 

The soft stir of the shower mingled with the low 
droning voice and the humming of the vielle, as if one 
with them. 

And then tears ran slowly down Suzanne’s cheeks, 
and after a little while she let her head fall upon her 
arms. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


*Tt is true, then?” asked the men-at-arms, talking 
together. “The Sieur has wed her ?” 

“Look how he has dressed her up in finery like any 
lady.” 

“He is mad for love of her.” 

“Eh ! for a peasant she is well enough. But to see 
her in her grand gown, striding along with steps as 
big as a man’s ! Ho ! ho ! ho !” Simon the scullion 
slapped his thighs, roaring with laughter. 

“She is base-born,” growled Nicol. “When the 
Sieur tires of her, the Pope will give him a divorce.” 

“But perhaps he will not tire of her?” 

“And I say. Heaven grant that he may ! A peasant 
to be the mother of our Sieur’s heir! Lord have 
mercy on us!” 

“Yesterday I heard the Sieur dictating a letter.” 
“Eh !” 

“To Dame Mathilde.” 

“Tete-Dieu! What will she say?” 

“Ha! ha! but he said nothing about madame wife! 
Not he ! And Maitre Paul kept peeping up at him, as 
much as to say, ‘Aren’t you going to tell them ?’ Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! not he !” 

When Suzanne approached the soldiers’ wives in her 
new blue-and-green brocade and steeple coiflfe, half 
shy and half excited, they greeted her with coldness. 


149 


150 


A Romance of Old Wars 


‘‘You should not be walking with the like of us!” 
remarked Marie. 

‘‘Mon Dieu !” cried Suzanne, vexed. “But I am the 
same girl whatever my clothes !” 

“Oh, Suzanne!” gasped Jeannette, walking round 
her and touching the stuff with an admiring finger. 
“And just look at the fine linen at her neck!” she 
exclaimed. “I wish I had your luck !” 

“For shame !” snapped Marie. “Isn’t your own hus- 
band good enough for you?” 

“I think you are unkind, good-wife,” said Suzanne. 
“Why shouldn’t I walk with you to-day as well as 
yesterday ?” 

But at the first resting-place she sat down by the 
roadside, and fanned herself with the end of her long 
sleeve. 

“I know now why a lady travels on horseback or in 
a litter,” she said, with a little laugh. “These clothes 
are so heavy, and it is so difficult to keep them out 
of the dirt. Oh, I am tired !” 

She took off her coiffe, and passed her hand over 
her hot forehead. 

“Isn’t it beautiful !” she said to Jeannette, turning 
the tall head-dress this way and that, arranging and 
gently stroking the green gauze veil. 

“I wish it did not make my head ache,” she said 
regretfully. “And I hate the shoes !” she cried. “I 
don’t see what’s the use of wearing them ! They show 
so little!” 

“Perhaps he will get a horse for you at Arras !” sug- 
gested Jeannette. “And the shoes do show, you 
know.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 151 

“Largesse! largesse, madame!’' whined Gaston, 
holding out a dirty hand to Suzanne. “Oh, pardon!” 
He drew it back in mock dismay. “I shouldn’t have 
dared to address so great a lady ! Oh ! oh ! what 
have I done?” 

“He! he! he!” laughed the shepherd, pointing at 
her, and writhing with glee. “The Sieur has given 
her a ring ! Won’t Madame Huette cry ! The Sieur 
has given her a coiffe ! Won’t Madame Huette cry ! 
The Sieur has given her a dress! Won’t Madame 
Huette cry !” 

“For shame !” cried Jeannette indignantly. 

“Look at the mirror and comb and purse hanging 
from her girdle ! He ! he ! he ! Won’t Madame 
Huette cry !” 

Suzanne rose distractedly. 

“Oh, do go away !” she cried. 

“Taste some soup !” cried Simon, offering her a pail 
of water. He sipped it, and in a high falsetto cried, 
“Oh, mon Dieu ! I never tasted anything so good !” 

“He! he! he!” shrieked Jehan, dancing round her 
in ecstasy. 

“Go away! Go away!” cried Suzanne, looking 
round for a chance to escape them. She saw Nicol 
striding towards them, and thought he meant to join 
in their mockery. 

“What shall I do?” she cried in dismay. 

But Nicol pushed her tormentors to one side, and 
went up to her. 

“Madame !” he began respectfully. 

She glanced at him sharply to see if he were mak- 
ing fun of her. 


152 A Romance of Old Wars 

His face was grave, but she still doubted him. 

“What do you want ?” she replied defiantly. 

“Madame, you should not be walking with these 
women. It is not proper for the Dame of Chatelfors 
to mix with the soldiers' wives.” 

“Oh !” exclaimed Suzanne hurriedly. “I did not 

know — I did not think Did monseigneur send 

you to me?” 

“Madame must pardon me if I have spoken with- 
out having been sent,” replied Nicol. “Monseigneur 
is a proud man. I have served him since he was born, 
and his father before him. I know it would displease 
him to see you here.” 

“You — you are not mocking me?” she asked. 

“The Saints forbid that I should mock the Sieur’s 
wife !” 

“But I am not different to these good-wives. I 
cannot become fine by sitting alone in a cart.” 

“Madame will learn that there should be differ- 
ences,” replied Nicol, stroking his shaggy beard. 

“What did I tell you!” cried Marie. “Eh, now 
you are neither peasant nor lady.” 

“Oh, yes!” cried Agnes. *We are not fit company 
for you, but will any lady consider you fit company 
for her?” 

Suzanne took no notice of the women. 

“Are you angry with me,” she said to Nicol, “be- 
cause he married me?” 

“The Sieur's wife is my mistress,” replied Nicol. 
“I have no right to be angry with madame.” 

Suzanne considered. 

“That is true,” she said, flushing. 


A Romance of Old Wars 153 

“I did wrong to ask,” she continued, speaking de- 
liberately. “You have no right to be angry with me, 
or to make fun of me. I had not thought of that. 
Certainly it is nothing to you what I was born and 
bred. I am your mistress now, and that is all that 
concerns you. Monseigneur sees some good in me 
which I don’t know of, and if you don’t see it, too, 
it’s because you are ignorant. And I don’t care at all. 
what you, any of you, think of me while he is pleased 
with me.” 

“Listen to her !” cried Agnes. 

“So there is no difference between her and us, 
isn’t there?” exclaimed Marie. 

“Take me across to the waggons,” said Suzanne 
to the blacksmith. 

When they drew near to Arras, Matthieu sent Eus- 
tace de Soulon on in front to seek a lodging for him 
and his wife. 

It was Sunday; the citizens were loafing at leisure, 
and as the damoiseau and other esquires rode gaily 
along the narrow streets everyone turned to gaze after 
them, commenting. 

“Tiens! One would say that another company of 
knights is approaching!” 

“The King is expected any day. Can it be he?” 

“I’ll go and find out.” 

“There’s your lodger’s wife at the window, Maitre 
Christophe,” remarked the weaver’s long-legged ap- 
prentice. “Pretty Dame Isabelle.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Maitre Christophe, without dis- 
turbing himself. 

He was sitting in front of his house, leaning against 


154 A Romance of Old Wars 

the wall, his legs tucked under the bench he sat on, 
his hands clasped over his stomach. His little fea- 
tures were collected into a group in the middle of 
an enormous round face ; his bald forehead and double 
chin, as wide as his rough red cheeks, made the circle 
perfect. 

“And she all alone!” cried his wife from inside 
the house. “It’s not proper! No wonder people 
talk !” 

“Here comes her husband,” said the apprentice. 

“Ah !” said Maitre Christophe again. 

“Dame Isabelle has seen him. Ha! ha! she’s gone 
from the window fast enough now !” 

Maitre Christophe shut his eyes, and his whole per- 
son shook like a jelly with silent laughter. 

“It’s my belief she is afraid of him,” said the appren- 
tice ; “and yet he seems good-natured.” 

“It’s her bad conscience!” cried the weaver’s wife 
from within. “She’s always tripping into some folly, 
and then fibbing about it. Oh ! I’ve heard her.” 

Maitre Christophe laughed till he choked, and his 
whole person heaved with a long wheezing cough. 

Whilst they talked Dame Isabelle’s husband, Maitre 
Sebastien Dubois, a Parisian merchant, was coming 
down the street towards them. He was a tall young 
man, with a fair beard, a fresh-coloured face, high 
cheekbones, and eager, prominent eyes. As he ap- 
proached, he smiled broadly, showing a quantity of 
square, even teeth, which seemed by their number, 
size, and whiteness to intensify the benignity of his 
smile. 

“Good-evening, Maitre Sebastien,” gasped the 


A Romance of Old Wars 155 

weaver, breathless on the edge of a cough. “Did you 
see the young horsemen go by?” 

“Good-evening, sir,” replied the young merchant. 
“Horsemen? No! At least, I took no heed of them.” 

“Ah !” said Maitre Christophe. 

“I was thinking out a plan ” said Maitre 

Sebastien. 

Maitre Christophe laughed mutely and heavily. 

“You and your plans! Well! well! They were 
pretty young men, sir ! pretty young men ! They have 
set all the women in a flutter. Just cast your eye 
along the street, sir.” 

Maitre Sebastien looked round. 

“They seem to me much as usual,” he said. “Busy 
about nothing, and so much astonished at every tick 
of the clock that they always have something to chatter 
about.” 

“Fie! fie!” laughed the weaver. 

“Tiens !” cried the apprentice. “Here's one of them 
coming back.” 

Everyone was alert and astir with interest. 

“Look ! look ! Here's one of the esquires re- 
turning !” 

“Which is it?” 

“Oh, the one with the brown hair ?” 

“He seems to be looking for something.” 

“What does he want, I wonder?” 

Eustace came riding back with a slack rein. He 
was glancing from side to side, taking note of the 
dark, crooked houses, that seemed to be sinking sleep- 
ily towards each other over his head, till in some places 
the roofs almost touched. 


156 A Romance of Old Wars 

Slowly he approached and pulled up at Maitre 
Christophe’s door. A crowd instantly gatherjsd round, 
blocking the street. 

Maitre Christophe got upon his feet. 

“Good-evening, sir said Eustace. “Are you 
Maitre Christophe Droz?’' 

The fat weaver bowed. 

“I am seeking a lodging for my master, the Sieur 
de Chatelfors, and his wife. I was directed to come 
here.” 

Maitre Christophe pursed his mouth and slowly 
rubbed his chin. 

“I— er— I— er ” 

His wife appeared in the doorway, and pushed him 
to one side, curtseying. 

“A lodging, sir?” she said. “Eh, that is difficult in 
Arras just now! The King expected and all! Take 
my word for it, you might knock at every door and I 
doubt if you would find half a room to let.” 

“I suppose that means you want a high price for 
yours,” said Eustace impatiently. 

“Eh, no !” she said sharply. “We’ve not got a room 
to spare, and that’s the truth. Whom did you want 
it for?” 

“What does it matter whom I want it for, if you 
have not got it?” said Eustace, preparing to ride 
away. 

“Mon Diet! ! don’t take one up so sharp,” she cried, 
catching hold of the reins. “A knight and his lady, I 
think you said ! A lady ! I should be sorry for a lady 
to have to make shift, and no roof to shelter her after 
a long journey. Perhaps something could be ar- 


A Romance of Old Wars 157 

ranged. If Maitre Sebastien were agreeable, and he 
and Dame Isabelle would share ” 

She glanced at the merchant, who bowed and 
showed all his teeth in a smile. 

“Anything I can do ” he began. 

A harsh blare of trumpets and the beating of drums 
interrupted them. 

“Here they come!” shrieked the little ragamuffins, 
as they ran frantically along the street. 

In a moment every window was open, every door- 
way was crowded, and the air hummed with voices. 

“Hark! They are quite near!” 

“Look! Look! Mon Dieu! The helmets!” 

“Oh ! oh ! what fine men, to be sure !” 

“Look at the horses !” 

“Take care ! you will be knocked over.” 

“NoH! NoH! NoH!” 

“Mon Dieu! The men look tired. It makes one’s 
heart ache to see them.” 

“That one is lame.” 

“They’ve been through rain! One can see that!” 

“And mud!” 

“NoH! NoH! NoH!” 

The long procession, crammed between the gloomy 
overhanging houses, trudged wearily through the 
crowd, crushing some of the spectators back against 
the walls or into the doorways, and carrying some 
along in their irregular ranks. 

The knights in armour, the muddy soldiers, had 
gone into the distance when the waggons appeared, 
jolting over the ruts, the drivers swearing as their 
tired beasts stumbled. Each cart was piled up with 


158 A Romance of Old Wars 

chests and sacks, tents and stakes, and at last, seated 
amongst these things, Suzanne went by. She sat 
very still, very upright, her hands in her lap ; her long 
blue-and-green dress lay in deep folds over her feet, 
and spread upon the floor of the cart. She held her 
head stiffly, as if to balance the tall steeple coiffe, and 
the pale green gauze veil hung straight down behind 
her. 

“Who is she?” 

“Who is this?” 

“The lady of some knight !” 

“Ha ! ha ! They say that she ” 

“Who said so?” 

“One of the soldiers.” 

“He was jesting ” 

“No! no! Besides, another said the same thing!” 

“A peasant ” 

serf ” 

“Tricked out in finery ” 

“Scandalous ” 

“Is it possible ” 

T’ve heard more than one say so.” 

Suzanne became aware of the half sentences passing 
from mouth to mouth, and her heart misgave her. 
The street seemed alive with hints. Inquisitive faces 
were all about her, looking from every window, so 
close that she might almost have touched them, press- 
ing round the cart, peering at her, grinning at her. 

And the waggon slowly lumbered on at a foot’s pace. 

“Hi! hi! You up there in the cart! The cow’s 
waiting to be milked !” shouted a half-grown youth. 

Suzanne’s blood thrilled as if she had been struck, 


A Romance of Old Wars 159 

but she made no sign. She only stiffened and became 
more rigid. 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed the crowd, and another voice 
cried, “Take care you don't spoil your white hands !" 
“Ha ! ha ! ha !" 

“Pig-girl! what are you doing in that cart?” 

“Where are your pigs? Get down, and find them, 
pig-girl !” 

“Here’s something to feed them with!” tossing a 
rotten apple at her feet. 

“She doesn’t hear.” 

“Hi ! are you deaf?” 

“Is she a stone image, do you think?” 

“Why don’t you answer when you’re spoken to?” 

“Eh, she hears ! Look at her cheeks !” 

“Pig-girl! pig-girl! where are your pigs?” 

As the waggon approached Maitre Christophe’s 
house, Suzanne perceived Eustace. The colour rushed 
into her face, and she leant forward, relieved and 
eager, to call to him ; but his eyes met hers with a 
look of cool amusement, and she drew back quickly. 

A roar of laughter surrounded her. 

“Did you see one of your pigs ?” 

“Ma foi! It has an affectionate heart, that little 
pig, to follow you so far.” 

“Hi ! hi ! You up there in the cart ! Come down 
and call your pigs ! They are mixed with mine !” 

“Eh ! the brazen hussy !” 

“A whipping would do her no harm.” 

‘‘Dis done! Will you come and sweep my house? 
I’ll put one broom in your hands, and warm your 
shoulders with the other.” 


i6o A Romance of Old Wars 


“And you shall have all the dirty straw to lie upon.” 

“And the scrapings of the pot! A fair offer!” 

“Hi! hi! pig-girl! Come down out of that cart!” 
“Ha ! ha ! ha ! ho ! ho !” 

The waggoner cursed as they hung on to the back 
of the cart and climbed upon the slowly-turning 
wheels. 

But Suzanne sat rigidly motionless, her eyes fixed 
so straight in front of her that they looked blind. Her 
face was set as if all life had vanished from it. As 
the waggon swerved heavily over the ruts, her stiff, 
still figure swayed with it. 


CHAPTER XIX 


“That is the Dame de Chatelfors,” said Eustace, 
with a scornful laugh, to Maitre Sebastien. 

The merchant looked at him sharply. 

“Then why, in Heaven’s name,” he cried, “why 
don’t you interfere?” 

Eustace shrugged his shoulders. 

“Why doesn’t monseigneur choose a peasant for his 
esquire?” 

Maitre Sebastien’s prominent eyes flashed anger. 

“He couldn’t have chosen worse than he has,” he 
cried, and he started to run after the retreating crowd, 
waving his arms and shouting. 

“What good can one man do against so many?” 
remarked Eustace, again shrugging his shoulders. 

“He is a man of influence!” cried the fat weaver. 
“He transacts business with all the richest merchants 
of Arras.” 

And he, too, began to pound heavily along the street. 

“Noel I now for a scrimmage 1” shouted the lank 
agile apprentice, outstripping both, and yelling for 
allies as he went. 

“What are they doing?” cried pretty Dame Isabelle, 
who was leaning eagerly out of the window. Eus- 
tace wheeled his horse round and looked up at her. 
“Where are they going? What is it all about? Is it 
to save her that they have gone ? Who is she ? Is she 

i6i 


1 62 A Romance of Old Wars 


really a peasant ? Oh, mon Dieii ! how cruel to taunt 
her like that ! and she so pretty, and all alone amongst 
those great rough men ! Ah ! They are going round 
the corner ! They are gone ! Ah, poor soul ! poor 
soul ! But is it all true ? Is she a peasant really ?” 

‘‘Quite true, madame,” said Eustace, eyeing her with 
admiration. 

The parchment panes were opened outwards, and 
the window framing her head and shoulders looked 
like the central piece of a triptych. The room behind 
her was dark, but the evening light was on her face 
and pretty round throat. Her small, dainty head 
drooped a little forward, and the modelling of her 
cheeks was traced by the fairest shadows. Her eyelids 
were curiously smooth as if closed ; they almost met, 
and her gray eyes looked out between them through 
a mere slit. Her mouth was thin and delicate and 
prominent, and the curves of her upper lip from the 
corners to the peaked centre, which lay in a point 
upon her under lip, were defined and clearly cut. She 
wore a steeple coiffe, and she was leaning her arms 
upon the window-sill, her smoke-blue sleeves lying 
crumpled under them against the dark wood. 

“Are you the Dame Isabelle they spoke of?” asked 
Eustace. 

“Yes, sir,” she said shyly. 

“Is it possible that you are the wife of that — er — 
worthy merchant?” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling. 

“Truly fortune is kind to him,” said Eustace, with 
an air of marvelling. “Tell me, madame — surely — 
you are no native of Arras?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 163 

“Oh, no, sir !” cried Dame Isabelle emphatically. “I 
am Parisienne. My husband was obliged to come here 
on business, and he brought me with him ; and, indeed, 
I shall be glad when we return, for after Paris, Arras 
is a very dull place. To be sure, now that the King 
is coming, there is more stir, but, after all, Paris is 
the centre of life!” 

“And the home of beauty!” said Eustace with a 
bow. 

She blushed a little, but ignored the compliment. 

“Is it really true, then,” she asked, thinking of 
Suzanne, “that she is a peasant?” 

“She is a common wench, not fit to touch your 
shoes,” he said. 

“But how does she happen to be here, and dressed 
up so fine, and riding alone in the cart?” 

“She is the Dame de Chatelfors,” said Eustace, 
sneering. “Monseigneur fell in love with her the mo- 
ment he set eyes on her.” 

“But do you mean to say he has married her?” cried 
Dame Isabelle excitedly. 

“He says so, dame.” 

“Oh, mon Dieu ! But I do not wonder. She is very 
pretty. How did they meet? Where did he see her? 
When did it happen ?” 

“He found her in the village that we passed through 
the other day. She was ringing the church bell to 
warn the peasants to take their property out of our 
way.” 

“And he knew nothing of her but that! Was he 
among the knights that passed just now? Which of 
them, I wonder ? I wish I had known ! I wish I had 


164 A Romance of Old Wars 

seen him! It’s a beautiful love-story!” she cried 
enthusiastically. 

^‘Ah, madame, all love-stories are beautiful!” 

'‘But it was wicked and cruel to jeer at her like that ! 
She is a martyr! And how brave to sit there like a 
statue, never flinching!” cried Dame Isabelle, with 
relish of the dramatic situation, but with tears of real 
sympathy in her eyes. 

“When I love,” said Eustace with meaning, “it will 
be no base-born, ignorant peasant girl.” 

And Madame Isabelle blushed again. 

When Maitre Sebastien, after a word of explanation, 
brought Suzanne in to his wife, Isabelle came for- 
ward quickly to meet her, and taking both her hands 
she kissed her on the lips. 

“How glad I am that you are coming to lodge here !” 
she cried, as Maitre Sebastien left them alone together. 
“Come and sit down. I know so few people in Arras, 
and then, not being in one’s own house, there is little 
to do. And Arras is dull compared with Paris ! Of 
course, in Paris I have a great many friends, and then 
the streets are so gay and so busy, and the halles are 
better than any in the world! It is a pleasure just to 
walk round and look at the things ! But here I am 
chattering, and you look so tired. Let me fetch you 
a cordial. No? Will you have a sweetmeat? Do! 
Isn’t this a pretty little drageoir? My husband gave 
it to me. I adore sweetmeats. Ah, my dear, how 
white you look! You must let me tell you I know 
all about it, and I think it is so wonderful to be 
loved like that ! It is like some romance that minstrels 
sing at feasts.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 165 


“Is it?” said Suzanne dispiritedly. 

“But you love him?” cried Isabelle. 

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne sadly. “Everything 
has happened so quickly.” 

Isabelle flung her arms round her. 

“Don’t, don’t say that! You do love him, and that’s 
why you were so brave ! I saw — I was at the window ! 
Oh, yes ! you do — you do love him !” 

Suzanne hid her face in her hands. 

“It is all so strange !’’ she sobbed. “And I don’t 
know what to do!” The next moment she looked up 
in anxiety. “Don’t tell monseigneur — don’t tell him. 
He didn’t see ! They were gone before we reached 
the market-place, and I am ashamed ! Don’t tell ! 
don’t let him know !” 

Maitre Sebastien did not return till after curfew 
had rung that evening. He found Isabelle sitting 
beside the ash-covered fire with no light but that of 
the moon. Her slender figure in her pale gown and 
tall coiffe looked gray and shadowy. 

“Are you still up, wife?” he said, sitting down on 
the settle beside her. “I have been with Maitre Flam- 
bert discussing a plan I have thought of for sending 
stuffs to Paris. It seems to me, and he thought 
too ” 

“Oh, sir !” she cried, “isn’t it wonderful ! Do 
you know, he found her in the belfry ringing to 
warn the peasants, and he married her then and 
there !” 

Maitre Sebastien did not answer at once. He took 
hold of his chin, and pulled at it with his finger and 
thumb, his mouth hanging meditatively open. 


i66 


A Romance of Old Wars 


“Ah!” he recollected. “To be sure! The Dame 
de Chatelfors.” 

“He had never seen her till the day he married her !” 
cried Isabelle. “But he fell in love with her at first 
sight, and never stopped to think whether she were a 
peasant or not !” 

“Well ! well ! he seems to be a hot-headed youth ! 
Did she tell you all this ?” 

“No, she didn’t. But I know it is true, for that 
young esquire said so.” 

Isabelle knew that Maitre Sebastien was frowning, 
though she could not see his face clearly in the twi- 
light, and she hastened to explain. 

“I was looking out of the window when she passed, 
you know — only when she passed : everyone else was 
doing the same — and I heard him talking about her.” 

“Was he talking to you?” asked Maitre Sebastien 
sharply. 

“He bade me good-evening,” she said uncom- 
fortably. 

“But did he talk to you?” 

“No, sir,” she said, after a scarcely perceptible 
pause. “No, no.” 

Maitre Sebastien stared thoughtfully at the smoth- 
ered fire. One thin coil of smoke was rising from an 
end of stick, and a red spark was travelling through 
the gray ashes. 

“He is a young hound!” he said presently. “I 
would not trust him a moment longer than I could 
see him. You are to have nothing to say to him, 
Isabelle, if he comes here; and, indeed, he is bound 
to come. You understand?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 167 

“Yes, sir,” she replied docilely ; and the next day 
when Eustace came into the room with Matthieu she 
curtseyed and withdrew, stooping to pass through the 
low doorway. Suzanne followed her, but, unaccus- 
tomed to her tall head-dress, she knocked it against 
the lintel. 

“Oh, curse my coiffe!” she cried impatiently, put- 
ting up her hands to put it straight. 

“Oh, Suzanne !” exclaimed Isabelle, scandal- 
ized. “You mustn’t — you shouldn’t say such 
things !” 

Suzanne looked abashed. 

“True,” she said. “Pere Antoine used to tell me 
it was wrong to swear, but it is so difficult to remem- 
ber when everyone does it.” 

“But everyone doesn’t swear!” cried Isabelle. 

“Eh, most people do! Why, monseigneur himself 
does often.” 

“He is a man.”' 

Suzanne considered. 

“You mean that ladies don’t?” she asked. 

“Well ” began Isabelle, embarrassed. 

Suzanne nodded slowly. 

“I understand,” she cried. “Why don’t you say 
frankly that I am rough ? Eh, it is no good my trying 
to be like a lady. I don’t know where to begin. I 
don’t know which thing to imitate. I am just a 
woman, and, like other women, I have a good heart 
and stout arms, but I am rough.” 

“Oh, Suzanne, I envy you ! I do indeed !” cried 
Isabelle. “That such a wonderful thing should really 
happen ! Nothing unusual ever comes in my way ! 


i68 


A Romance of Old Wars 


One day is just like another. One spins and sews, 
and makes rose-water and ointments, and the only 
thing that ever happens is that one’s husband is cross 
if the dinner is not to his liking, or if his fresh hose 
are not ready for him, or if the water to bathe his 
feet when he comes home of an evening should not 
be hot. It is all so ordinary, and I do wish something 
different would come sometimes !” 

Suzanne was listening with grave attention. 

“Is that so?” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll learn to 
do all those things,” she continued with resolu- 
tion. “Will you teach me, dame? I want to know 
how to sew and make medicines like madame up 
at the chateau at home, and how to serve monsei- 
gneur.” 

That afternoon Matthieu found Suzanne threading 
a needle. She was standing, sturdily planted on her 
heels, beside the closed window. The sun was shining 
palely through the opaque panes, and the deadened 
light fell softly on her bright blue-and-green gown. 
She held her needle up close to her eyes, her long 
sleeves hanging in pointed folds before her. Her 
hands trembled with their effort to be steady ; 
her lips were a little pursed ; her face was very 
serious. 

As Matthieu entered she looked up, and smiled 
shyly. 

“I am learning to sew,” she explained. “Dame 
Isabelle is showing me how. 

“And oh, monseigneur!” she cried, “Dame Isabelle 
took me to the market-place; and do you know there 
are shops in every street, and Dame Isabelle bought 


A Romance of Old Wars 169 

some blue silk, and a long red ribbon, and I bought a 
needle and some thread to sew with! And oh! sir, 
we walked about for an hour, and we never left the 
streets; but she says that Paris is bigger, and that 
ships come up the Seine from all parts of the world, 
and that the merchants are richer than here. And 
then we went to the cathedral, and oh, monseigneur, it 
is so big that all the people in Arras might kneel there, 
and it would not be full, and it is so high that a tree 
could not reach the roof; but Dame Isabelle says that 
there are churches as big in every street in Paris, and 
that Notre Dame is much more beautiful and richer, 
and even bigger, and that there are relics there brought 
from Jerusalem itself ! But oh, sir, the poor beggars ! 
They were at the church door all in rags, and so dirty, 
and there was one man who had no legs at all, and a 
woman whose arm was withered, and an old blind 
man ! I gave them pennies, and so did Madame Isa- 
belle, and she says that Maitre Sebastien is so charita- 
ble that if he has no money with him he will give 
away his clothes, like St. Martin. And oh! we saw 
the crier of the weavers’ guild; he was crying out 
about a great feast there is going to be, and he was 
dressed in red and gold. And I saw lots of knights 
riding through the streets, but Dame Isabelle says that 
it is only because the King is coming, but that in Paris 
the streets are always full of knights.” 

“Ma mie!” said Matthieu, “would you like to see 
Paris?” 

Suzanne flushed. 

“Oh, monseigneur !” she exclaimed. 

“Shall we go to Paris?” he asked. 


170 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Oh, sir, I would like to go there better than any- 
where in the world!’’ 

“Well, sweetheart, we will go there.” 

“Oh, monseigneur, when?” 

“After the campaign,” he said. 


CHAPTER XX 


‘^After the campaign!” thought Suzanne, with a 
sudden dread. “What if he should be killed !“ 

On every side she heard grave rumours of the dis- 
turbance in Flanders, of the siege of Oudenarde, of 
the insolent bragging of the rebels. 

“When will they fight?” she asked Isabelle. 

“After the King has arrived,” she replied. 

“Will he come soon?” 

“He is expected any day. Oh, Suzanne! I wish 
Maitre Sebastien were a knight!” 

“Oh !” cried Suzanne abruptly. 

“Think of the glory of fighting for one’s country !” 

Suzanne uttered her dread. 

“But what if he should be killed ?” 

“Well, it would be an honourable death ! As to me, 
it would break my heart ! Indeed, it would kill me, I 
think! One day Maitre Sebastien was thrown from 
his horse, and when they told me I fell senseless ! But 
that would be my share in his honour ! To give one’s 
life for France and the King! Oh, but it would be 
glorious! I wish I were a man, and I would have 
nothing to do with mere buying and selling! Mon 
Dieu ! if I must have pain, let it be a glorious pain ! It 
is an obscure sorrow that eats one’s heart away.” 

Suzanne considered. 

“Yes,” she said shrewdly, “but I think a part of 
every sorrow is obscure. 


172 A Romance of Old Wars 

“What shall I do if monseigneur should be killed?” 
she thought, as she watched him ride down the 
street. 

“What if he should be killed !” she thought, looking 
at him as he knelt beside her at Mass. 

It was while Matthieu was playing chess with 
Maitre Sebastien that Eustace brought news of the 
King’s approach, and they hurried out into the market- 
place. 

Isabelle ran to the window, and pushed it open. 

“Come, come and look,” she cried. “I hear 
them.” 

Suzanne rose to her feet and stood vacillating. 

The hoarse sound of cheering came nearer and 
nearer. 

“Here they are !” cried Isabelle ; but Suzanne stayed 
where she was standing. 

The confused Babel of chattering and shouting was 
approaching; she could hear the sound of the horses’ 
hoofs, and she began to tremble with a vague excite- 
ment. 

“It is the King himself! Our King!” cried Isabelle 
in tears. “Heaven bless him ! And he is but a child ! 
God protect him ! It is himself !” 

A cluster of pennons began to pass the window 
on slender lances, jolting slightly up and down, and 
the hoarse shouting rose in a roar from the street 
below. 

Suzanne stared at the passing lances, her hands 
pressed against each side of her throat. 

“When the King comes they will fight,” she thought. 
“What if monseigneur should be killed?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 173 

On his arrival in Arras, Charles VI. reviewed his 
troops. He sent an envoy to bid the Flemish lay down 
their arms. The reply was a haughty refusal. Then 
the King moved to the abbey of Marquette, some thirty 
miles north of Arras, accompanied by his army. 

Matthieu bade Suzanne stay in Arras. 

‘T will send for you as soon as there is a roof to 
shelter you,” he said, as he bade her good-bye. 

“Let me come with you,” she pleaded. “A tent is 
enough shelter for me.” 

“Dear heart, we are going into danger. The camp 
will be no place for women now.” 

“Sir, I will trouble no one. Let me come with you. 
I will put on my peasant dress again, and follow on 
foot.” 

“But war is not fit for womenkind.” 

“You bade me follow you to danger,” she replied. 

“With my shield before you.” 

“I am not afraid,” she cried. 

“But I am afraid for you,” he said. “My danger 
is more than doubled if you come, and the thought 
of your near peril would make me a coward.” 

“But, sir, I do not care to be in safety alone.” 

“Cordieu, Suzanne !” he cried impatiently. “A 
woman’s place is at home, and not in the camp ! Fight- 
ing is a man’s business, and a woman would be in 
the way.” 

Suzanne submitted, but the dread remained with her 
all day, and in the night she would lie awake for hours 
sick at heart and wondering : 

“What if he should be killed! 

“He may be dying now,” she thought. 


174 A Romance of Old Wars 

“If he dies, I am quite alone. 

“What shall I do? Where shall I go? 

“But it is not that !” she moaned. “He is so young 
and strong, and so magnificent.” 

Rumours reached them that the French had been 
beaten in a skirmish, that they were unable to cross 
the river Lys ; the bridges were destroyed ; the Flem- 
ish were alert on the further bank. Heavy rains hin- 
dered them ; the soldiers were suffering and dis- 
couraged. 

“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! if only one could know 
something for certain !’' said Suzanne. 

“But we are sure to win in the end !” cried Isabelle. 

Then came news that the Lys was crossed, that 
there had been a battle, some saying that the French 
had prevailed, others that they had been repulsed, and 
others again that they had won, but with a heavy loss 
of brave knights. 

One day Suzanne sat sewing slowly and clumsily. 

Dame Isabelle was restless, and she paced up and 
down the room, sweeping the straw about with her 
skirts. 

“I believe I am as anxious as you are,” she said. 
“And there is nothing to divert one’s thoughts!” she 
complained. “Now that the army has gone, Arras is 
as empty as if it were plague-stricken.” 

She went to the window, and stood looking idly out. 

It was raining, and no one was to be seen in the 
street. 

“How difficult to have fortitude when life is dull!” 
she sighed. 

All at once she became rigid with attention. 


A Romance of Old Wars 175 

“Suzanne,” she said. There was a note of re- 
strained excitement in her voice. 

Suzanne looked up with the terror of expectancy 
in her eyes. 

“What?” she said sharply. 

“Come here!” 

Suzanne started to her feet, and went to her side. 

A man on horseback was riding slowly down the 
empty street. 

“It is Maitre Paul!” 

The secretary rode astride, his brown gown rucked 
into folds across his horse’s neck, his long legs hang- 
ing stiffly down. His head was bent against the rain ; 
the drops trickled off his cap, and down his face, 
and streaked his beast with moisture. 

“How slowly he comes !” cried Isabelle. 

“Maitre Paul ! Maitre Paul !” she cried, as he came 
within earshot. “Maitre Paul !” 

He peered about him through the veil of rain to see 
where the voice came from. 

“Oh, do come quickly !” cried Isabelle. “What 
news? What news?” 

He perceived them, and hurried his dispirited beast 
till he was under the window. 

“Good news,” he said huskily. 

“The Lys has been passed. Comines has been taken ; 
the King is at Ypres,” he said. “Cassel, Bergues, 
Gravelines, Bourbourg, Tourhout, and Poperingues 
have submitted to the King.” 

“Thank God ! thank God !” cried Isabelle. “I knew 
we should win ! I knew we should !” 

“Monseigneur has sent a casket of beaten gold to 


176 A Romance of Old Wars 

madame, which is part of booty taken at Comines/' he 
went on. “And it is monseigneur’s pleasure that 
madame should accompany me to Ypres, where mon- 
seigneur awaits her.” 

“I am ready,” said Suzanne. 


CHAPTER XXI 


As it was already late when Maitre Paul arrived, he 
spent that night in Arras. The next day he hired two 
horses, and he and Suzanne started for Ypres. 

They were forced to advance slowly, for the roads 
were bad with heavy rains, and they had scarcely 
gone ten miles when Maitre Paul’s horse fell lame. 

He with difficulty procured a fresh mount at the 
next hostelry, but they were delayed some hours, and 
darkness and a thick fog ended their day’s journey, 
when they were still some five or six miles from 
Ypres. Thus they did not arrive until the following 
morning. 

Maitre Paul pulled up before a tall, narrow house, 
and, dismounting, he rapped at the door loudly. A 
Flemish woman opened it, and Suzanne, slipping from 
her horse, followed the secretary in, and up the steep, 
dark stair. 

He opened the parlour door and stopped short; no 
one was there. 

He stood aside for Suzanne to enter. 

‘'Monseigneur has doubtless gone out,” he said in 
his hoarse whisper. ‘T will go and ask.” 

Suzanne went in, and remained standing until he 
returned. 

“Well?” she asked. 

“Dame, they tell me ” He hesitated. 

“Where is monseigneur?” she demanded. 


177 


178 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Madame, the army has gone into camp near 
Rosbecque.” 

“In camp !“ 

“The Flemish army is face to face with them, led 
by Artevelde himself. They expect to fight ” 

“When?” she cried sharply. 

“To-morrow, madame.” 

The next morning a dense white mist hung over the 
country. Suzanne could not see the opposite houses, 
nor the sky above, nor the street below ; a little space 
just in front of her showed her the mist shifting. 

The sounds of the street, rising out of blankness, 
sounded strangely causeless. 

Maitre Paul rode away early towards Rosbecque to 
obtain news, and Suzanne waited. 

She stood beside the window, watching the mist 
drifting in filmy coils, and by degrees she discerned 
the houses on the other side of the street in a line of 
giant shadowy shapes, and, looking down, she saw 
ghost-like forms moving to and fro under the clouds of 
fog. Then all at once the mist sparkled with sun- 
light and vanished; a pale strip of sky gleamed above 
the roofs; the houses were solid and clear, and the 
street was thronged with busy, chattering Flemings. 

Presently she saw Maitre Paul returning. She 
watched him approach, dismount, and enter the house. 
She heard him stumbling up the stairs, and she turned 
round to face the door, her lips parted. 

“Well?” she said, as before. 

“Even now they are fighting,” he said as he entered. 

A look of horror came into her eyes. 

“A herald was sent into the enemy’s camp,” he 


A Romance of Old Wars 179 

said, “to give them one more chance of submitting, 
but they are proud and foolhardy. 

“The French have gone out 'with God’s blessing,” 
he continued. “The mist was dispelled when the Ori- 
flamme was unfurled. It is a good omen ! I saw mon- 
seigneur in the distance, but I could not get near him. 
He was fully armed, and on his black war-horse. 

“I will go out again and watch for news,” he said. 
“One is sure to hear something before long.” 

“Even now they are fighting!” thought Suzanne, 
pacing up and down the room with her long step. 

Then she went back to stand by the window. 

A seller of hot wafer-cakes was slowly proceeding 
along the street, shouting his wares, stopping at every 
third step that he took, and turning from side to side 
looking for customers. 

A portly matron bustled up to him to buy, and a 
lame beggar limped after her, pestering for alms. 

Two children quarrelled, and their mothers ran out 
to separate them and slap them, and continue the 
quarrel with each other. 

A fine bourgeoise pushed her way through the 
crowded street, and went into a shoemaker’s shop 
opposite, and began to bargain shrilly. 

Suzanne turned away; the emptiness of the room 
weighed upon her, and its silence sang in her ears. 

“Even now they are fighting!” she whispered. “O 
God ! O God ! have pity !” 

During the next few hours Maitre Paul returned 
twice — once to tell her that a man had come from 
Rosbecque, saying that the combat was all confusion, 
and that the clamour could be heard at a great dis- 


i8o A Romance of Old Wars 

tance, and the second time to say that a little goiijat 
had arrived, crying out that the day’s fortune was 
against the Flemish. 

Suzanne sat down by the table and covered her face 
with her hands. 

'‘O God ! O God ! have pity V 

A sound of excitement rose from the street; she 
looked up, and listened. 

Then she started to her feet and listened again. 

She ran to the window and leant out. 

All the street was thronged with eager, hurrying 
people, and in their midst a messenger, begrimed and 
pale, was triumphantly shouting out in French: 
^‘Noel ! Noel ! The Flemish are all running away 
like so many hares! The French army is pursuing 
them 1” 

The townspeople, not understanding, pushed, ques- 
tioned, and gesticulated, till someone arrived who 
understood French, and he shouted the news in Flem- 
ish. There was a moment’s silence, then a murmur 
rising to a shout; but some of the women wept, and 
slipped into the houses to hide their tears, and here 
and there a man escaped cursing from the throng. 

Suzanne leant out. 

'"Sir,” she cried, as the mes^senger came under the 
window, but she stopped abruptly. 

"T can’t! I can’t!” she gasped. 

All at once she perceived Jehan the shepherd. He 
was running along the street in short spurts, and then 
stopping to writhe with laughter. 

"He ! he ! he ! I have been counting the dead ! 
NoH! NoH! Two, three, four! He! he! he! The 


A Romance of Old Wars i8i 


Flemish are running away, and the French are running 
after them ! They are far away ! miles and miles !” 

“Jehan!” she cried. 

He looked up and shrieked with laughter. 

“He ! he ! he ! The pretty esquire is dead ! A 
lance went through him ! and then they hit him with 
a mallet till he was dead ! I saw him fall down ! I 
did !” 

She drew back, white and dizzy, clutching at the 
window-ledge. 

The shepherd writhed with glee. 

“Look, look at her! She’s sick! She doesn’t like 
blood ! He ! he ! he ! I killed two, and four, and four, 
and four ! They are all dead and cold and bloody.” 

He blundered against a fat Flemish bourgeois, who 
seized him by the arm angrily. 

“Get out of my way!” he cried in bad French. 
“What are you doing here, you Frenchman? Have 
you run away?” 

“Fve come with a message for her!” cried Jehan, 
pointing to Suzanne. 

“Have you come from monseigneur?” she cried 
sharply. 

“He ! he !” he laughed. “I’ve got something to tell 
you ! I’ve got something to tell you ! I’ve brought 
a message !” 

“Oh, mon Dieu !” she cried. “Have you come from 
monseigneur ? Is — is ” 

“They are all dead and cold and bloody !” cried 
Jehan, and Suzanne went away from the window. 

“I cannot bear it!” she gasped, and sank on her 
knees by the table. 


102 A Romance of Old Wars 

‘‘A message! He must have sent it! No! no! I 
do not believe it ! Jehan is crazed ! He does not know 
what he says ! 

God ! O God ! O God ! 

“If only someone would come ! 

“He will never come back! I know he will never 
come back ! And I can’t pray ! I can’t.” 

The day dulled into evening, and she did not move. 
She knelt there, aware of the hum of the townsfolk 
outside, vaguely aware of the passing time, aware of 
her sickening anxiety, yet without thought, her mind 
void. 

Sometimes she held her breath, listening to the 
silence in the room. 

Then, after a long while, she heard the sound of 
horses’ hoofs. They approached, and stopped. 

The house-door banged. 

Suzanne raised her head and listened, every nerve of 
her body alert. 

She gazed at the closed door of the room, motion- 
less, breathless, petrified by an overwhelming hope. 
Quick, bounding footsteps were on the stairs. Her 
heart beat fast, her hands were cold and trembling. 

The door was flung open. With a sharp cry she 
leapt to her feet. 

‘'Matthieu !” 

And she was in his arms. 


CHAPTER XXII 


“The Sieur will surely be coming back soon!” said 
Madeleine the blacksmith’s wife, standing at her cot- 
tage door, one day in January. 

Josephine, who was leaning against the wall biting 
a straw, nodded. 

“Yes, to be sure!” continued Madeleine. “Who 
knows? By this time next week they may all be here 
again. Holy Virgin! What am I saying? All! 
Heaven grant that as many come back as went away !” 

Josephine said nothing. She let her eyes gaze over 
the fields to where Jerome the Lean was digging, his 
sleeves pushed up above his elbows, the tops of 
his big boots rolled over. The fitful wind fluttered his 
brown tunic, which was tied in by a rough cord. She 
watched him thrust his spade into the soil, driving 
it down with his foot, and heaving up the dark, broken 
clods. The pale winter sun dappled the rugged earth 
with delicate shadows. 

“It’s very cold,” said Josephine, hugging herself 
with a shiver, as the thin wind rasped her cheeks, and 
blew about her brown hair untidily. 

As she spoke they saw Jerome pause in his work, 
and wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. 
Then he straightened himself, and, resting upon the 
handle of his spade, he stood staring into the distance. 

“What’s he looking at, I wonder?” said Josephine 
between her nibbles at the straw. 

183 


184 A Romance of Old Wars 


“I’m sure I don’t know!” said Madeleine. “I can’t 
see anything but old Bernard bringing wood along the 
road ! 

“Upon my word,” she added, “I can’t think what’s 
come to Jerome. All the winter he’s been working as 
if to save his life, and couldn’t stop to bid anyone a 
civil good-day 1 and now look at him ! He spends 
half his time standing still and staring at nothing.” 

“Ah 1” said Josephine. “He’s getting daft like his 
brother Jehan the shepherd.” 

Madeleine swung round. 

“Daft! and him so clever, and been in Paris, and 
wanting to be a priest!” 

Josephine nodded wisely. 

“I mean it,” she said, and suddenly crossed her- 
self. “And I say that it ’ll be a mercy if no more in 
the village grow like him.” 

“But, Holy Virgin! What do you mean?” cried 
Madeleine. “What are you saying? To be sure, it’s 
not natural to go about with a silent mouth ! The 
good God did not give us mouths only to eat with ; not 
that he does much of that, either, though how he lives 
I’m sure I don’t know !” 

“Look!” said Josephine. 

“What?” 

“Don’t you see?” 

“But what? What?” 

“Maitre Andre from the chateau; there! leaning 
over the fence !” 

“So it is !” cried Madeleine. “Well ! I declare he’s 
as daft as Jerome. What can he want to watch him 
for like that?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 185 

Josephine laughed meaningly. 

“Whatever Jerome is doing, and wherever he may 
be, Maitre Andre always finds him, and goes to watch 
him,” she said. 

“I know ! IVe seen them myself !” said Madeleine, 
“and they never speak ! I assure you, they never open 
their lips.” 

Josephine lowered her voice and spoke cautiously. 

“Do you know what I think ?” 

“What?"’ 

“Jerome’s changed, hasn’t he?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“And since when? Eh?” 

“Mon Dieu ! Do you think ” 

“All I can say is that I am glad Maitre Andre 
doesn’t watch me, or anyone belonging to me,” said 
Josephine. 

She pulled herself together, and threw away the 
straw. 

“Good-day,” she said carelessly, and strolled away, 
leaving the blacksmith’s wife open-mouthed with 
horror and surprise. 

Jerome was standing with his back to the physician, 
apparently unaware of his presence, and Maitre Andre 
remained leaning upon the fence in silence. There 
was a look of amusement and interest on his round, 
solemn face. 

At last he cleared his throat and said gently : 

“May I ask what you are thinking of?” 

Jerome turned quickly round. 

“Why are you always watching me?” he asked in- 
dignantly. 


1 86 A Romance of Old Wars 


“I want to know what you are thinking about/’ 
persisted Andre. 

A harassed look came into Jerome’s face. 

‘‘Nothing!” he said, as if speaking to himself. “I 
think of nothing.” 

“That’s not true,” said the physician placidly. 

Jerome considered. 

“It has been true till now,” he said, frowning. “One 
cannot dig and think. One cannot plough or chop 
wood and think. To labour is to become a beast.” 

“You have been unhappy?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Jerome. “Does a beast 
regret or hope for anything?” he asked. 

Andre nodded slowly. 

“You speak like that, and then ask me to believe 
that you are not unhappy ?” 

Jerome let go his spade, which fell aslant, and he 
thrust his hands into his hair. 

Then, his look falling upon Andre, he seemed to 
become again aware of his identity. 

“What have you to do with my thoughts ?” he cried 
angrily. “You are a scoffer, and upon all the face of 
the earth there is nothing so despicable.” 

“I’m not a scoffer,” said Andre, aggrieved. “I’m 
a practical man. What you call mockery is common- 
sense. You have no common-sense.” 

“Heaven forbid!” said Jerome. “Common-sense 
is the white sepulchre in which conscience lies buried ! 
If a deed be prudent, practical, expedient, it is justified, 
according to common-sense.” 

“Certainly,” said Andre. “That’s only reasonable.” 

“Reasonable !” cried Jerome, turning upon him 


A Romance of Old Wars 187 

fiercely. ‘‘Do you dare to tamper with reason? Are 
you brave enough to face the torment, the restlessness, 
the hopelessness of it? Man ! don’t talk to me of rea- 
son ! It is a cursed thing ! What consolation can the 
soul find in a maze of words? Words that fret the 
brain with their futile turmoil 1 Words that create 
a tangle of doubt and perplexity, which does not exist 
for the simplicity of Divine love ! Can reason alter 
what is? And because speech is limited and cannot 
express the things of eternity, do they therefore not 
exist? What good has reason done to me? What 
good, I ask you? It has made my life a hell! My 
one prayer now is. Lord, deliver me from reason! 
And it is too late — too late ! I cannot forget ! 

“And I cannot undo what is done,” he cried. “I 
have tasted the joy of reasoning — a false joy leading 
one farther and farther into the misery of the un- 
answerable ! a deadly barren joy, debasing all the 
mysteries of life and death into a game of skill, and 
giving you nothing in return. And I cannot undo 
what is done ! I must still play with these words, 
which mock my understanding with one meaning, while 
they tell another tale to other ears! I must still try 
to cram a sense into words that are too narrow to 
contain it ! I must still seek for an answer to the ques- 
tion that no reason can answer! I know that I am 
wrong, wrong, but I do not know what is right !” 

Andre stared through his round spectacles at the 
gaunt peasant, but did not speak. He rubbed his 
hands softly together, as if something pleased him. 

“A little while ago I thought my prayer had been 
heard,” said Jerome. “Solitude revealed to me what 


1 88 A Romance of Old Wars 

no reason could teach. I discovered the silence that 
is within each one of us ! I listened to it ! I stilled 
my brain, holding my breath, and I was aware of my 
living self and of God.’’ 

“But,” said the physician, pointing at him, “you are 
unhappy ?” 

“I am perplexed, and perplexity breaks the soul’s 
silence,” said Jerome ; then again turning upon Andre 
in indignation, he cried: “What are you doing here? 
Why do you intrude upon my solitude?” 

A distant shout attracted their attention; a boy was 
running across the fields towards them. 

“It’s them! The Sieur!” he cried. “I believe it’s 
the Sieur.” 

Andre caught him by the arm as he came up to 
them. 

“There’s a crowd on the road!” he panted, “and 
waggons too ! I was on the hillside, and I saw 
them.” 

He wrenched his arm away, and ran shouting into 
the village. Andre watched him go; then he turned 
and scrutinized Jerome with deliberation. 

“What shall you say to the Sieur?” he asked. 

“That’s it !” groaned Jerome, with a look of anguish. 
“/ don't know!" 

In a few seconds all the village was astir. Women 
came out to stand gazing into the distance, shading 
their eyes with their hands ; others came hurrying 
along the road; old men and crones appeared at the 
cottage doors. 

Josephine ran past them, her untidy hair streeling 
about her ears. 


A Romance of Old Wars 189 

“Have you heard?” she cried excitedly. “They are 
coming !” 

“It is them!” exclaimed Andre. “Bon Dieu! it is 
them!” 

A straggling little crowd was advancing along the 
road, stirring a cloud of dust about their plodding 
feet. 

“But — I do believe No! Yes! Jerome, the 

Sieur is not with them! No! He has not come!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Huette was sitting by the fire in the great hall, read- 
ing from her book of hours. 

She was seated on a low stool, and held her book 
with both hands, her elbows resting on her knees. 
Her dark blue gown spread round her in a rich, 
crumpled surface upon the yellow straw. She was 
pale, and her little round face was slightly hollow- 
cheeked. She looked up as the door opened, and 
Dame Mathilde entered with a letter in her hand. 
The colour rushed into her cheeks, and she rose to her 
feet tremulously expectant. 

“Have you heard? Most of the men have re- 
turned,” said Dame Mathilde, trying to speak with 
unconcern. “They have brought a letter from 
Matthieu.” 

“Is he coming?” asked Huette quickly. 

“No,” said Dame Mathilde. “Not yet. He has 
gone to Paris with the King. It seems there is trouble 
there. The Parisians have revolted, and taken arms 
against the King himself. It is scandalous !” 

Huette held out her hand in silence for the letter. 
Dame Mathilde gave it her, and left her alone. 

Huette returned slowly to the stool, the letter in 
her hand. She sat down again, her skirt trailing to 
one side of her, her hands on her lap. 

For a little while she remained motionless. 

Then a subdued noise of voices somewhere outside 


A Romance of Old Wars 191 

startled her, and she hurriedly held up the letter to 
read. 

It took her some time; her lips formed each word 
silently until she reached his signature — a scrawling, 
uncertain hieroglyph traced by his own hand. 

Then she let her arms fall slackly by her side, and 
she stared into the fire, frowning painfully. The letter 
dropped on to the floor. 

“The Flemings overcome — Eustace dead — the Pa- 
risians up in arms — a request for half of the sheep’s 

fleeces or their value in money ” and nothing 

more ! He had gone to Paris ! No word of returning 
home ! No word of regret or tenderness, or even 
friendliness ! A barren statement of a few facts, and 
for her nothing but a respectful salutation shared with 
his mother. He had just remembered to name her, 
but that was all. 

The increasing sound of harsh converse outside 
made her move impatiently. 

Then, pressing her forehead against the palms of 
her hands, her fingers lying whitely upon her red hair, 
she faced her trouble. 

‘‘He doesn't care!" 

The Babel of talk outside rose to excited shout- 
ing. Huette started angrily to her feet, and called 
Odette. 

“What is all that noise?” she demanded. 

“Pardon, dame! It’s some of the men who came 
back to-day, dame ! They’re in the kitchen— Simon 
and Jehan the shepherd, dame. They were telling us 
about the war.” 

Huette looked wistful. 


192 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Well/’ she said more gently, “but you needn’t 
shout.” 

“It’s Jehan, dame! He says such things — such 
things I” Her face showed horror mingled with a 
relish of the thrill it gave her. 

Huette eyed the girl uncertainly. She looked about 
for the letter, and, seeing where it had fallen, she 
picked it up. She glanced at it, and frowned im- 
patiently. 

“I should like to hear what Jehan has got to say,” 
she said. “Send him here.” 

“Oh, dame! but he’s silly! He is, indeed, dame!” 

“But not so silly as not to know what is going on !” 

“Oh, no, to be sure, dame,” cried Odette. “He sees 
a great deal too much, and he can keep nothing to 
himself !” 

“What was he telling you?” asked Huette, hungry 
for news. “About monseigneur?” 

“Yes, dame.” 

“Where did they leave him?” 

“I don’t know, dame.” 

“Was monseigneur well?” 

“I — I think so,” replied Odette, embarrassed. 

Huette sat down. 

“Send him here to me,” she said. “I will question 
him myself.” 

But Odette hesitated. 

“Well, why don’t you do as I tell you?” snapped 
Huette. 

“Madame ” 

“Well?” 

“Don’t see him. He’s — he ” 


A Romance of Old Wars 193 

“What do you mean?” cried Huette, rising furi- 
ously. “Go this instant!” 

Odette fled. 

Huette settled herself again and waited. 

“Matthieu tells us nothing — nothing!” she thought. 
“Even in the kitchen they know more than we do! 

“After all, those men were with him. They saw 
him every day. Of course, he thought that we should 
question them. 

“Why doesn’t Jehan come?” She went to the door 
and called angrily, and returned to her seat by the 
fire. The letter was still in her hand. 

“He promised me! He said he would come back! 
He promised me! 

“Ah ! at last !” she exclaimed, as the door opened and 
Jehan the shepherd entered. 

He shuffled into the room with uncertain gait, his 
weak knees giving with a jerk under him at every 
step. He was flushed, and there was a look of foolish 
evilness in his face. 

“You have kept me waiting,” said Huette imperi- 
ously. “Why didn’t you come at once?” 

“They wouldn’t let me,” said Jehan in an aggrieved 
voice. “I wanted to ! I wanted to see what you 
looked like, I did.” He drew the back of his hand 
across his moist mouth. 

She half laughed. 

“Come,” she said, “don’t be foolish. I want you 
to tell me about monseigneur. Was he well?” 

“Oh! Eh! Yes. He! he! he!” 

“He has gone to Paris with the King, he tells me.” 

Jehan nodded vehemently. 


194 ^ Romance of Old Wars 

“Whom has he taken with him? Maitre Paul, I 
suppose? Anyone else?’' 

Jehan's face fell in blank disappointment. 

“Hasn’t he told you in that letter ?” he asked, point- 
ing. “What did he write it for, then?” 

She looked surprised. 

“What do you mean?” 

“What’s in the letter, then?” persisted Jehan. 
“Maybe you have not read it? Doesn’t he tell you 
about Madame Suzanne?” 

Huette stiffened suddenly ; her eyes grew like steel. 

“What!” she said. There was danger in her voice. 

“Isn’t it in the letter?” repeated Jehan. “Then, 
that’s why you don’t cry ! You don’t know.” 

“I don’t know what?” she demanded. 

“He ! he ! he ! Monseigneur has married Madame 
Suzanne, and she has gone with him to Paris !” 

“Ah !” With a shriek Huette sprang to her feet. 

“Look at her ! she didn’t know ! Look at her !” 
cried Jehan gleefully. He writhed with delight, point- 
ing at her, and sniggering. 

“It’s not true !” screamed Huette. 

“Oh ! Eh ! It is ! He ! he ! he !” 

“It’s not true, I tell you!” she screamed again. 
“Monseigneur is betrothed to me!” 

“Eh ! but he has married her, he has !” 

“Liar Liar! Liar! Liar!” she cried frantically, 
and Jehan laughed uproariously. 

Then all at once Huette checked her violence. She 
drew a deep breath, and in collecting herself she seemed 
to recoil like a snake about to strike. She became 
still ; the hot colour in her cheeks was fixed, and the 


A Romance of Old Wars 195 

glitter in her eyes was hard. She gave an angry 
laugh. Jehan’s jaw fell in astonishment, and he gazed 
at her with a startled look, as if fascinated. 

“To be sure you are a fool and daft,” she said, “but 
you are a vicious fool. Your lying tongue is trouble- 
some, and your laughter makes your lies foul. 

“You must learn to speak the truth,” she said. 
“And let me tell you, fools who make mischief may 
not laugh!” 

She called Odette. 

Jehan watched her furtively, half cowed and won- 
dering. 

“Send Jacques and his man here,” she ordered. 

At the name of the gaoler Jehan took fright. 

“What are you going to do?” he cried wildly. 
“You are not going to shut me up?” 

She laughed. 

“Are you beginning to repent your lies?” she asked. 
“Upon my honour, you will soon acquire truthful- 
ness.” 

“What are you going to do?” he cried. “I haven’t 
done anything, I haven’t! I wasn’t doing any harm. 
It’s true about monseigneur ! It’s not lies ! Ah !” he 
screamed in terror as the gaoler and his assistant ap- 
peared in the doorway. 

“Take this fool outside, and whip him,” said Huette. 

Jehan uttered a howl of despair. He was helpless 
with fright, and they dragged him inert and unre- 
sisting into the courtyard. 

Huette followed, and stood upon the steps. 

“Let me go! Let me go!” he cried, as they tied 
him half-stripped to the bar of the stable door. “I 


196 A Romance of Old Wars 

haven’t done anything. It’s true about monsiegneur! 
I haven’t told lies ! Let me go ! Ah ! Ah !” 

He shrieked as the lash fell. 

“Go on,” said Huette, unmoved, to the gaoler. 

“Let me go! Let me go! It’s true Ah! 

Ah!” 

Huette grew white, and put her hand over her eyes. 
The gaoler hesitated. 

“Go on,” she said again. “He lies.” 

“Let me go! I didn’t mean it!” screamed Jehan. 
“I didn’t mean any harm.” 

“Wait!” cried Huette. 

“You didn’t mean it, Jehan?” she cried. “Then 
it zvas a lie?” 

“Yes, yes !” he moaned. 

“Monseigneur is not married?” 

“No ! no ! no !” 

Her eyes flashed. 

“Say it yourself,” she commanded. “Contradict 
that vile lie.” 

“He’s not married,” gasped Jehan. 

“You hear !” cried Huette exultingly to the men and 
servants who had gathered round to look on. “Mon- 
seigneur is my betrothed, and these tales of another 
woman are false. Say it again, Jehan.” 

“He’s not married,” he moaned. “There is no 
Madame Suzanne.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Someone tried the latch of Mere Nannette’s hut 
door, and pushed against it, and then, finding that the 
door was fastened on the inside, rapped loudly. 

“Now who is that?” muttered Mere Nannette, bend- 
ing over a pot that was hanging over the fire. 

“Mere Nannette ! Mere Nannette ! open quickly,” 
cried Josephine’s voice outside. 

The old woman raised herself, straightened the red 
kerchief which was over her gray hair and tied under 
her chin, and wiped her weak eyes, which were water- 
ing from the smoke. 

“Open! open quickly!” cried Josephine, rapping, 
and Mere Nannette went to unfasten the door. 

“What do you want?” she asked ungraciously. 
“Well, you do look wild!” 

“Oh, Mere Nannette!” she cried, “they’ve been 
flogging Jehan up at the chateau, and now Nicol is 
bringing him here !” 

The old woman stared at her with piteous eyes. 

“Flogging him?” she echoed. “Flogging my 
Jehan?” 

“Here they come,” said Josephine, standing aside as 
Nicol the blacksmith approached, carrying the meagre 
figure in his arms as if he were a child. A crowd 
of peasants, awed and sympathetic, were following. 

“I don’t understand !” moaned the old woman. 


197 


198 A Romance of Old Wars 


“What have they been doing? They can’t have 
flogged my Jehan! 

“What is Nicol carrying him for?” she asked. 
“Have they hurt him as badly as that?” 

Nicol came up to the doorway, and stooped his 
head to enter. 

“Where shall I put him, good-wife?” he asked. 

“Eh, wait a bit,” she cried, and lugged a straw- 
stuffed mattress out of an inner room; she covered it 
with a blanket. 

“Put him down here,” she said, kneeling beside it, 
and Nicol gently placed him upon the mattress. 
Jehan’s eyes were wide open, fixed with terror; his 
face was drawn and livid. 

The peasants crowded into the hut. 

“I don’t understand,” wailed Mere Nannette, “that 
I don’t. What did they want to hurt him for?” 

She went to her cupboard, and took out a jar of 
herbs and dock-leaves. 

“It was Madame Huette,” began Nicol; but at 
Huette’s name a look of frenzy distorted the shep- 
herd’s face. 

“No! no! no!” he cried. “It’s not true! There 
is no Madame Suzanne.” 

“Eh, poor, foolish creature !” exclaimed Odette, who 
had followed them from the chateau. “He told her 
that monseigneur was married.” 

“No ! no ! no !” shrieked Jehan. “It was a 
lie !” 

“Bon Dieu! To Madame Huette! And she so 
jealous!” ejaculated Madeleine. 

“But it’s true.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 199 

“No ! no !“ moaned the shepherd. “He is not mar- 
ried.” 

“True! as true as that monseigneur is not here!” 

“Holy Virgin !” 

“But then she'll have to know some day.” 

“Well, ril not be the one to tell her!” 

“Nor I !” 

“Nor I — even if I have to swear by all the Saints 
that he is true to her !” 

Mere Nannette looked up as she was covering 
Jehan’s bruises and sores with leaves, the tears stream- 
ing down her withered cheeks. 

“It’s cruel,” she said. “What good could it do her 
to hurt him ? And him half daft ! She needn’t have 
believed him if she didn’t want to! 

“Look here !” she cried, pointing at Jehan. “They’ve 
killed him for me ! the child I bore ! And I loved him, 
for all that he was half daft! and just when he had 
come back to me !” 

“No, no, good-wife,” said Nicol. “He will not die. 
We have sent to find Maitre Andre at the chateau to 
ask him to come down and cure him.” 

“Oh!” cried Madeleine and Josephine together. 

“Don’t let him come here !” cried Madeleine ex- 
citedly. “Don’t let him inside your door !” 

“Eh, what?” 

“What does she say?” 

“But why? why?” 

Madeleine crossed herself. 

‘'Sh — sh — sh.” She glanced cautiously to right and 
left. 

“But what do you mean, good-wife?” 


200 A Romance of Old Wars 


She whispered, and they clustered round her 
eagerly; the words passed from mouth to mouth. 

“Dealings with the devil ! — a sorcerer — the evil eye 
— Jerome overlooked — bewitched ” 

Mere Nannette paid no heed to them. She knelt 
fondling Jehan’s hands, crying silently, and mutter- 
ing: “What did they hurt him so badly for.^ What 
good could it do her to see him hurt?” 

At Jerome’s name, however, she looked up. 

“Fetch Jerome,” she said. “Where is he? I want 
Jerome. Fetch him ! Bring him here !” 

“They are looking for him,” said Nicol. “I can’t 
understand why they’re so long finding him.” 

“Eh! ril go and see if they are to be seen.” 

“I will come with you,” and two or three of the 
peasants left the hut to seek Jerome. 

“She might have known there was no harm in him,” 
said Mere Nannette. “What good could it do her 
to have him flogged ! It won’t bring monseigneur 
back to her.” 

“Oh, good-wife!” cried Odette, “it’s pitiful to see 
her! I don’t wonder she’s half beside herself. She 
knows that monseigneur doesn’t care, and that’s what 
makes her so bitter.” 

*‘Dis done, Nicol ! whom has he married ?” asked 
Josephine. 

“He’s not married,” screamed Jehan. “It’s a 
lie!” 

“Hold your tongue, will you, you silly hussy !” cried 
the old woman angrily. “Why do you trouble him 
with your chatter when you see it makes him wild? 
Oh, me! Why doesn’t Jerome come?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 201 


“Maitre Andre doesn’t come, either,” remarked 
Jeha.n the miller. 

The peasants began to exchange meaning looks. 
They drew together to whisper. 

“I don’t like it.” 

“It’s strange.” 

“I think I’ll go and have a look. Will you 
come?” 

“One doesn’t know what may not have happened.” 

“It is strange ! There’s no denying it.” 

“You’re a set of fools,” said Nicol impatiently. 
“What do you suppose can have happened?” But he 
accompanied them out as they edged out of the hut, 
leaving Mere Nannette alone with Jehan. 

It was getting dark, and their faces looked white 
and misty in the soft twilight. 

“Are you thirsty?” she asked him presently, and 
held a cup to his mouth; but he let his lips hang 
slackly, and made no effort to drink. She moistened 
his lips with a wet rag. 

Then she stirred the fire into a fitful flame, and sat 
down beside it. 

It became dark except for the firelight, and the 
silent shadows leapt round her like a nightmare. In 
the stillness of the night she heard strange, sudden 
creakings. 

Jehan did not move; he scarcely seemed to breathe. 
From time to time she went to him and peered into 
his face. It was always just the same — haggard, the 
eyes wide open and unseeing, the lips hanging. It 
grew cold. She nursed the fire with splinters of wood, 
hanging over the tiny flame, and muttering to herself : 


202 A Romance of Old Wars 


“Why have they flogged my son? They have hurt 
him cruelly ! and he half daft. 

“Jerome will take it to heart. Why doesn’t he 
come ? He’s a long time away. He’ll take it to heart, 
he will.’’ 

She nodded drowsily, and presently dozed as she sat 
there waiting. 

Then she woke up with a start. The fire was out ; 
it was quite dark, and very cold. The window showed 
a little patch of dark gray-blue. 

She groped her way to Jehan, and leant over him to 
listen to his breathing, and to feel his hands. She 
thought his eyes were still wide open. 

Suddenly she raised herself and listened. 

Someone was fumbling at the door; there was a 
sound of voices, then a knock. 

“Jerome,” she said. “Is that you?” 

She felt her way to the door and opened it, and a 
chill wind blew straight in upon her. A crowd of 
dark figures was standing in the lane before her hut. 

“Jerome,” she cried, “why have you been so long 
coming?” 

No one replied. 

“Isn’t he with you ?” she cried with a piteous sharp- 
ness. “Oh, men alive ! don’t tell me anything has 
happened to him too.” 

“He’s gone, good-wife!” said someone gently. 

“Gone!” she echoed. 

“He’s not been seen in the village since the morn- 
ing.” 

“We’ve been looking for him all night, and for miles 
round.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 203 

“Maitre Andre has gone too, curse him !” 

“There’s no doubt about it! There’s devil’s work 
in this.” 

“I always thought Maitre Andre was cleverer than 
he should be!” 

“And the way he used to watch Jerome! Day 
after day! Wherever he was working!” 

“There’s nothing can help Jerome now but your 
prayers, good-wife.” 

“Eh ! he’ll never come back now.” 

Mere Nannette remained standing in the doorway, 
as she listened to the subdued, rough voices of the 
dimly-seen figures round her, each one adding his 
word to the tale they had to tell. 

When they had finished, the old woman turned 
round, and without a word she went in and shut the 
door. 


CHAPTER XXV 


When Jerome realized that Matthieu had not re- 
turned, he left his spade, and without a glance behind 
him, he strode across the fields to the highway to 
Paris. He broke through the rough wattled fence, 
and marched steadily along the road, as if with a 
definite aim. His steps were long and fast; the dust 
hovered over his feet, and settled in the creases of his 
big boots. 

Towards nightfall Maitre Andre, riding upon a 
donkey, overtook him. 

“Hi ! hi ! hi ! Jerome !” he shouted, as soon as he 
came in sight, but Jerome did not hear. 

“Jerome ! Jerome ! hi ! hi ! hi !” he shouted again, 
and beat his drum, and hit the donkey with his heels. 

At last Jerome heard and looked round. He gazed 
in vague wonderment at the figure which was jogging 
along towards him through the twilight. Maitre 
Andre thumped his donkey, waved, and shouted again. 

‘'YouT exclaimed Jerome in disgust, as the physi- 
cian came up to him. 

“You do walk fast,” said Andre, who was a little 
out of breath. 

“Why do you pursue me?” demanded Jerome 
fiercely. “I will not go back! I cannot go back 
now !” 

“But I don’t want you to go back,” said Andre. 
‘’T am coming with you.” 


204 


A Romance of Old Wars 205 

“What?” 

“Oh, I always meant to leave Chatelfors as soon as 
you did,” explained Andre, his lips lifting to his nos- 
trils as he spoke. “I don’t like life in the chateau — 
dinner every day as a matter of course, and the same 
bed every night. Lord no! I was only waiting for 
you to make up your mind.” 

“Do you mean to say you have left Chatelfors?” 
exclaimed Jerome. 

“Well, yes ; or I should not be here.” 

“And you intend to come with me?” 

“Yes.” 

“But I don’t want you !” cried Jerome. Andre gave 
him a shrewd glance through his big round spectacles, 
and said nothing. He dismounted, and unfastened a 
bundle from his donkey’s back, dropped it by the road- 
side, and knelt down to undo it. 

“Why do you molest me?” cried Jerome. “I have 
nothing to do with you ! Our ways are not the same. 
Leave me in peace I God knows if I have done wrong, 
but such as you can never help me. In my perplexity 
I have acted blindly. I do not know ! I do not know ! 
I must needs do something, and I cannot tell what is 
good to do. But you ! You have no right to mock at 
the unhappiness which you cannot understand !” 

“I have told you before,” said Andre patiently, 
“that I never mock.” 

“Why do you pursue me, then?” 

“Now, look here,” said Andre. “I want to accom- 
pany you ; you want to be rid of me. Such differ- 
ences as this do occur. One man wants one thing, the 
other wants the opposite. Naturally, one of the two 


2 o 6 a Romance of Old Wars 

must give way. The question is, Which? Now in 
this case it must be you. Consider ! You wish to 
leave Chatelfors; so do I. You are on the road for 
Paris ; so am I ! The road is here, for any man to 
walk on — for m.e as well as for you. And it is wide 
enough for both of us.” 

Jerome thrust his fingers into his hair, and stared 
at the ground. 

“Is my punishment already overtaking me?” he 
murmured. 

“I am not your punishment or anyone else’s !” cried 
Andre indignantly. “If anything, you are your own 
punishment.” 

Jerome pondered. 

“I believe you are right,” he said sadly, “and I 
cannot escape from myself.” 

“By the way,” said the physician, returning to the 
bundle he had untied, and producing a long black 
gown and hose and shoes. “I brought these for you.” 

“For me?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t think of it yourself,” said 
Andre. “If you are wearing this no one will inter- 
fere with you. Take my word for it, you would have 
to tell more lies than you have wits for to escape in- 
convenient notice as you are.” 

“But ” began Jerome. 

“Put it on,” said Andre emphatically. “Do you 
want to be caught as a runaway serf?” 

“I believe you are right,” said Jerome again, with 
an air of surprise. “I had not thought of it.” 

He stripped off his tunic, and while he struggled 
into the black gown, waving his long arms, like an 


A Romance of Old Wars 


animated scarecrow, Andre rolled up the discarded 
garment, and, together with the boots, hid it in the 
ditch. 

“Now get on the donkey,” he said. 

“But ” 

“I am tired of riding. I want to stretch my limbs. 
Get up.” 

Jerome meekly obeyed, and they started together 
upon their journey, Andre trudging beside the donkey. 

They proceeded in silence. 

The frosty, starlit night grew deeper ; the thin wind 
wandered mutely over the plain, and whispered in the 
bare twigs of the trees by the roadside. 

They travelled all night. Just before daybreak they 
sat down to rest. Andre produced a store of food from 
his basket, and, still without speaking, they ate together. 

Then they slept for a couple of hours. 

Jerome woke first. He sat up and looked round 
him. The road behind him lay over a steep hillock, 
and ended abruptly on the summit against the sky; 
on the other side it curled out of sight round a wood. 
In front of them, undulating meadows, crossed by 
brooks, and here and there fenced in, stretched away 
into the far distance. 

Beside Jerome Andre was lying on his back, his 
hands under his head, his round face placid in sleep. 

The donkey was tethered to a tree, and was grazing 
thoughtfully amongst the thistles that grew by the 
roadside. 

Jerome’s eyes rested on the donkey. It was small 
and plump ; gray, with soft, black markings round its 
eyes, and along its back and edging its big ears. 


2o8 a Romance of Old Wars 

Jerome was staring at it vaguely, and he was still 
staring at it, when Andre opened his eyes some min- 
utes later. 

The physician stretched, yawned, sat up, and 
stretched again. He glanced at Jerome, and then at 
the donkey, and then once more at Jerome 

‘Tt’s odd,” remarked Jerome, ‘Tow like that donkey 
is to the one that carries wood at the chateau.” 

‘T don’t think it odd,” said Andre. 

“Why not?” asked Jerome unsuspiciously 

“Because it’s the same donkey!” said Andre. 

Jerome turned round. 

“Why — I thought — but who — how did you get it?” 

“Mon ami ! I took it !” 

“You took it !” 

Jerome started up in wrath. 

“You stole it!” he cried. “Are you a thief as well 
as a scoffer?” 

“You and I want that donkey more than the Sieur 
does,” said Andre. 

“The donkey is his !” cried Jerome. “Would you 
call wrong right?” 

“Eh! call mine his, or his mine — a mere difference 
of words,” said Andre. “After all, who has a right 
to possess anything ? A man owns a thing because he 
wants it. If someone else wants it more, he takes it. 
Sometimes he is called a great man for doing so, 
sometimes a thief. Would you call a great man a 
thief?” 

“Take that donkey back,” cried Jerome. 

“I certainly shall not. The donkey is useful.” 

“You have no right to it. Take it back!” 


A Romance of Old Wars 209 

“Now do be reasonable ’’ 

“Reasonable !” exclaimed Jerome bitterly. “Go on 
your own way, then. But I will not participate in 
your sin.” 

“You can’t help it now,” said Andre. 

“I can’t help what I did unknowingly,” said 
Jerome, “but henceforth I will have nothing to do with 
you.” 

“I dare say, but that makes no difference now,” said 
Andre. 

“What do you m.ean?” Jerome stared at him. 
“What do you mean? 

“Ah !” He pointed his lean finger at Andre’s 
basket. “The food ! That was stolen too ! and I have 
not only ridden the donkey, but have eaten of the 
food.” 

Andre smiled. 

Another idea occurred to Jerome ; he plucked at his 
gown with finger and thumb. 

“Maitre Gerard’s,” murmured Andre. 

“This ! this !” gasped Jerome. “This, too, is stolen, 
and I never guessed !” 

He sat down and covered his face with his hands. 

Andre packed his basket and fastened it upon the 
donkey’s back. 

“A curse is upon me!” groaned Jerome, “that I 
should become a thief!” 

He started up and began to stalk away down the 
road towards the wood. 

Andre hurriedly scrambled on to the donkey and 
followed him. 

All that day they travelled together, Jerome strid- 


210 A Romance of Old Wars 


ing along, unrelenting, unflagging, and Andre placidly 
jogging beside him, but keeping a watchful eye upon 
him. 

Once or twice other wayfarers accosted Andre, ask- 
ing for news, or for landmarks on the road they had 
passed, and Andre pointed out Jerome to them with 
pride. 

“See that man ?” he said, nodding towards him as he 
walked steadily on. “He’s a saint! Eh! you should 
hear him preach !” 

They passed through two villages that day, where 
Andre proclaimed his wares to the sound of the drum, 
begging food and other small necessities in payment. 
Each time Jerome, indifferent to whatever the physi- 
cian might do, walked on alone, and each time Andre 
hurried his bargaining to overtake him on the road. 

On the second occasion he found Jerome sitting on 
a bank haggard with weariness. He was staring 
apathetically in front of him, his arms resting along 
his knees, which showed sharp outlines through his 
black gown, his big thin hands hanging slackly in 
front of his shins. 

Andre sat down beside him, and began to display 
the fare he had collected. He was proud of a bottle 
of wine, and stuck it up between them with satis- 
faction. He divided the food, and offered half to 
Jerome. 

“Take it away,” said Jerome hoarsely. 

“It’s all right,” said Andre reassuringly. “You 
need have no scruples. 

“I mean it,” he insisted, in answer to Jerome’s wist- 
ful scrutiny. “I swear it. 


A Romance of Old Wars 21 1 


“Look here,” he continued, “what is passed, is 
passed, both for you and for me. You can’t alter it. 
It’s out of reach. But for the present you and I are 
comrades, and except for each other we are alone in 
the world. We are both hungry. This present mo- 
ment is all that matters between us now. Let every- 
thing else go to the devil, and let us eat. 

“Come,” said Andre. “It’s only God Himself who 
can remember and be charitable. Men should forget.” 

Jerome submitted and took the food. 

That night they spent in the shelter of the hedge 
that protected them from the wind. From time to 
time Andre woke to see Jerome sitting upright brood- 
ing, and then closed his eyes to sleep again, content 
to have seen him still there. 

Thenceforth Jerome no longer rebelled against 
Andre’s presence. He got used to him, then depend- 
ent on him. They spoke little, but Andre was satisfied 
to know that Jerome made no effort to get rid of him. 
Also he no longer stalked on alone, while Andre sold 
his ointments and simples, but he remained sitting by 
in patient silence, and apparently inattentive, until the 
business was finished. One day, however, he seemed 
to listen, and suddenly, as an old woman was bemoan- 
ing her malady, he rose and held up his long, thin arm. 

The peasants gaped up at him, and pressed for- 
ward a little, wondering what he was going to do. 

“Why do you complain?” he cried. “Take the medi- 
cine in silence, and pray to God. If He wills that it 
should cure you, it will ! But why do you complain ? 
What good can complaining do you? None! none! 
none! Your sufferings are between you and God, 


212 A Romance of Old Wars 


whether it be bodily pain or the soul’s sickness, or 
sorrow and tribulation. It is useless to complain, I 
say. No one can realize what you endure, no one 
can understand your complaining. No one can know 
but God, and it is His right that no one should enter 
there by knowledge. You cannot, and you may not, 
uncover your souls. Do you want bread,” he cried, 
‘'do you want tales, do you want wisdom, intercourse 
will give them to you. But the soul is shut in ; it can 
only reach another soul by love, and though love can 
guess much it can know very little. We are alone, I 
say ! Each one of us ! Alone with God, and we have 
no right to try to admit others into the solitude which 
God claims for Himself!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


After the campaign in Flanders the King returned 
to find the Parisians in revolt, and he had kept many 
of his knights, Matthieu amongst them, under arms, 
whilst he pursued the leaders with vengeance, and 
deprived the town of its privileges. Thus Matthieu 
was furnished with a reasonable excuse for delaying 
his return to Chatelfors and for taking Suzanne to 
Paris, where his reckless profusion filled Dame Isa- 
belle with awe and admiration. She never wearied 
of relating the story to her acquaintances, and of de- 
tailing the latest gossip concerning Suzanne. 

“And do you mean to tell me that he married her?” 
exclaimed Dame Annette Laborde, the mercer’s wife. 

She and Dame Christine Deschamps, the widow of 
the old goldsmith, Gaston Deschamps, were sitting 
with Isabelle in her parlour in Paris. 

“He did indeed !” said Isabelle enthusiastically. 
“Married her then and there!” 

“But surely,” said Dame Christine, and she waved 
a deprecating hand, “surely she cannot know how 
to — er — behave ?” 

“Oh, but she does,” replied Isabelle, “really she 
does. At least — that is to say — she is not like other 
people, you know ; she — she does what comes into her 
head to do, and she says what she thinks, but there 
is nothing to mind. They stayed with us, she and 
213 


214 


A Romance of Old Wars 


the Sieur, when they first came to Paris, and she — 
oh, well, I love her!” she cried. 

“And now he has hired an hotel?” asked Dame 
Annette. 

“Yes.” 

“Why doesn’t he take her to Chatelfors?” asked 
Dame Christine sternly. 

“Oh, I hope he won’t take her away from Paris!” 
cried Isabelle quickly. 

“He ought to take her to his home if he has mar- 
ried her,” persisted Dame Christine. 

Isabelle bent forward and whispered. 

“Really !” exclaimed Dame Annette, much interested. 

“It is disastrous !” said old Dame Christine de- 
cidedly. “Good Heavens! Why, if the child is a 
boy he will be the heir of Chatelfors, and his mother 
will be a peasant ! Take my word for it, the Sieur 
feels it, and that is why he doesn’t take her there. He 
is beginning to repent!” 

-Oh, but ” 

“My dear Isabelle, nothing can alter her birth !” 

“But he adores her,” cried Isabelle. “He cannot 
bear to leave her even for a day, and he spends money 
for her with both hands ! He buys her everything she 
asks for, or doesn’t ask for! I wish you could see 
the house they live in, and the splendid festivities they 
give! Why, the ball in the Parloir des Bourgeois is 
nothing in comparison !” 

A couple of hours later Isabelle was seated at one 
of the decorated tables in the banqueting-hall of 
Matthieu’s hotel. The walls were hung with tapestries 
representing the story of Clovis and his Queen, and 


A Romance of Old Wars 215 

by the light of the torches the woven figures stirred in 
a stiff, ghostly semblance of life behind the line of real 
people, gaily clad, with vivacious faces and quick, 
gesticulating hands. 

The tables were arranged along three sides of the 
hall, and the guests sat all facing the central space, 
where the servants came and went. 

Madame Marie de Presle noted the details of the 
sumptuous repast with admiration. 

“But she? This peasant girl !” she murmured, mar- 
velling. “She cannot have thought of all this?” 

Madame Berthe de Sancy leant forward, speaking 
across the young Sieur Ducroix, who sat between them. 

“Why, no ! She has a housekeeper, of course — a 
worthy woman I know of. How could an ignorant 
girl manage a household like this?” 

Up in the gallery the musicians were playing while 
the meats were served, and on a platform below them 
the performers of farces and sottises between the 
courses mimicked the customs of the moment. As 
they appeared the Babel of talk sank to a hum, broken 
from time to time by a roar of laughter at some refer- 
ence to a fashionable folly. 

Suzanne was watching with serious interest. She 
leant a little forward, her arms on the table. 

“A thing I do not allow my servants even to do !” 
exclaimed the scandalized Chatelaine de Grand- 
champs. “I wonder that Monseigneur de Chatelfors 
does not reprove her.” 

But Matthieu was regarding Suzanne with frank 
admiration and pride. 

She was dressed in a red brocade, the design traced 


21 6 A Romance of Old Wars 

in gold thread, and her white coiffe was very high, 
elaborate, and spread in broad, white wings. The sun- 
burn had faded from her face, and her hands had 
grown smooth and white. She looked gravely radiant, 
and she spoke little. 

“Ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed the guests ; but Suzanne did 
not understand the topical allusions of the players, and 
she did not laugh. 

“Do they not please you, madame?” asked the old 
Sieur de Presle, turning round to her, red-faced with 
laughter. 

“Oh, yes, sir!” she said, “very much!” 

“Pardon me, but you do not laugh.” 

“No,” she said. “I see nothing to laugh at, but 
I do want to know what happens next.” 

Presently, however, one of the players entered as a 
clownish peasant. An uneasy hush fell upon the 
guests, and they glanced at Suzanne curiously. Mat- 
thieu frowned, but Suzanne, enchanted with a humour 
she knew and understood, flung back her head, and 
broke into peals of laughter so whole-hearted and 
joyous, that one after the other they all laughed with 
her. 

“Who is that pretty young woman in the yellow 
dress?” asked Madame de Presle. 

“That? Oh, that is the wife of the rich merchant, 
Maitre Sebastien Dubois,” replied Madame Berthe. 

Madame de Presle shrugged her shoulders. 

“A bourgeoise?” 

“Well! what can you expect? To a peasant a 
bourgeoise is a fine lady ! That man is her husband — 
that man with the smile.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 217 

“Ha! ha!” laughed the Sieur Ducroix. “His smile 
makes such a disturbance in his face that one almost 
expects to hear it.” 

“Bon Dieu! what is she going to do now?” ex- 
claimed Madame Berthe, gazing at Suzanne, who had 
risen from her seat, and with her long, swinging step 
was crossing the hall to the sideboard. 

A hush fell upon the guests, and the players hesi- 
tated as she took up a heavy crystal aigiiiere of wine in 
both hands. 

For the moment the servants were absent, and she 
had noticed that the Sieur de Presle’s goblet was 
empty. 

“Upon my honour! she is positively stately,” mur- 
mured the Sieur Ducroix. 

“No, not stately,” said Madame Marie; “only 
deliberate.” 

“It is the same thing, madame,” he replied. 

Suzanne returned to the table, unconscious that all 
eyes were fixed upon her, and she poured out the wine. 

The old Sieur de Presle started to his feet. 

“This — this is too much honour,” he stuttered. 
Then, meeting her calm, friendly eyes, he suddenly 
seized the goblet, and held it high above his head. 

“Long life!” he shouted. “Long life and all good 
fortune to Madame Suzanne!” 

“Noel!” cried the Sieur Ducroix, thumping the 
table ; and suddenly one and all leapt to their feet, with 
a shout of enthusiasm : 

“Long live Madame Suzanne!” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


One day Isabelle asked Suzanne if she wanted to 
go to Chatelfors. 

Suzanne did not reply at once. Then she said, 
"No.” 

“Does monseigneur ever speak of it?” inquired 
Isabelle. 

“No,” said Suzanne again. 

“But you will have to go some day ?” 

They were standing together in the courtyard feed- 
ing the pigeons. The house rose so high on every 
side of them that the summer day was shut out, and 
a dormant chill hung in the narrow square. The soft 
brilliance of the sky looked very far away, and the 
noise of the street beyond the heavy arched door 
sounded remote. 

The pigeons came fluttering down from the roof 
and window-ledges, and alighted crooning and strut- 
ting on the uneven, moss-grown pavement. 

“Some day?” echoed Suzanne, scattering a hand- 
ful of grain. 

“Eh, well,” she said, “if I must go, I must. I take 
what comes.” 

“But why don’t you want to see your home — for, 
after all, it is your real home?” asked Isabelle. 

Suzanne emptied her little jar of grain, and shook 
the front of her green gown. 

“I am -so happy here,” she said, turning to mount 
218 


A Romance of Old Wars 219 

the steps to the hall-door. “I am afraid to go to 
Chatelfors,” she added. “I know nothing of what 
awaits me there. I only know that monseigneur’s 

mother and grandmother and ” She broke oflf 

sharply, and then continued : “I know that they are 
there, but that is all. They have sent me no message. 
Letters come sometimes.” 

“Perhaps monseigneur has not told them about you,” 
suggested Isabelle. 

Suzanne flushed. 

“Maybe,” she said, and went indoors. 

The thought troubled her. 

“Not told them? I am his wife. He has married 
me. What if he has not told them?” she wondered. 
“And yet they surely know? So many of the men- 
at-arms have gone back, and they will have told 
them.” 

She shuddered as she remembered Jehan’s evil glee, 
and his refrain, “Won’t Madame Huette cry !” 

“Yes, but if monseigneur has said nothing, perhaps 
they would not believe.” 

“There is Dame Mathilde and Dame Yolande and 
Dame Huette,” she thought; “and perhaps they do 
not know ! 

“Eh! let what must come, come. I will ask him 
nothing,” she decided, as she sat one evening on a 
bench in the trellised garden. The high, rose-covered 
wall behind her was glowing in the light of the low 
sun, while the great shade of the wall opposite crept 
towards her over the grass, gradually overtaking and 
absorbing the shadows of the rose-trees and the 
arbours. Her green gown and high white coiffe were 


220 A Romance of Old Wars 


bright in the sunset; her hands lay on her lap; her 
dark eyes were abstracted. 

Suddenly she was aware of someone close behind 
her. She half turned, but the low sound of a vielle 
and of Matthieu’s voice singing in her ear arrested 
her, and she sat still and upright, listening. 

Matthieu had propped his instrument against his 
thigh, and he was standing with his head a little bent, 
attentive to his fingering of the notes, and recalling 
the words of his song. 

It was a greeting to her unborn child in tender, 
stilted verse, the humming of the vielle softly blurring 
his voice, as if with a twilight of sound. 

At first a passionate joy flashed into Suzanne’s face. 
Then her look changed; it became wistful and trou- 
bled with foreboding. 

Matthieu’s song was all of happiness, of the wonders 
of the world, of the good things of life that were 
awaiting the child. 

“Come and see,” he sang. “Come and be loved; 
come and win honour!” 

Suzanne hid her face and wept. 

“I cannot understand,” she sobbed. “I am afraid, 
and I don’t know why! Oh, sir, maybe it is sorrow 
that is in store for him, and it seems so pitiful.” 

He leant over the back of his bench and put his arm 
round her. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, “what do you fear? You are 
safe with me.” 

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. 

“But so many things may happen,” she said, “and 
I cannot understand.” 


A Romance of Old Wars 221 


“Sweetheart, are you not happy?” 

She gave a little sobbing laugh. 

“Sometimes I am half afraid Tin dreaming,” she 
said. 

In June Suzanne’s boy was born. 

“The Sieur de Chatelfors,” she said proudly, as 
they put him in her arms. “Matthieu! another 
Matthieu de Chatelfors !” 

One after another the fine ladies who had feasted 
at Matthieu’s table came sweeping into her room, 
their maids carrying the trains of their surcottes. 
Suzanne received their congratulations in silence, shyly 
oflfering them hippocras and sweetmeats; but their 
coming pleased and excited her : it was all part of the 
bewildering splendour which surrounded her at Mat- 
thieu’s word. 

She lay back on red velvet cushions, flushed with 
happiness. The four-post bed was draped with 
fringed curtains ; the walls were hung with red 
brocade. Beside her bed stood the two-shelved 
dresser, loaded with silver and enamel flagons, goblets, 
and bowls. 

When Isabelle came to see her, Suzanne called to 
the nurse to give her her little son. 

“Look at him — look at him !” she cried, her eyes 
shining as she held him on her left arm. She had 
taken the two tiny fists in her right hand, and was 
gently stroking them with her thumb. 

“Ah, Suzanne !” cried Isabelle, kneeling beside her, 
“how happy you must be !” 

“I never guessed,” said Suzanne. “I didn’t even 
guess.” 


222 A Romance of Old Wars 


“Do you mean ” 

“That it would be like this,” she said. “How 
could I tell? And if anyone had told me, how 
could I have believed them ? Isabelle ! Isabelle ! 
He is the father of my child, and he is so mag- 
nificent.” 

“I suppose,” Isabelle said to her a day or two later, 
“that if they go to Flanders now you would stay here 
with the child.” 

Suzanne looked startled. 

“What have you heard?” she cried. 

“It’s cruel,” said Isabelle. “The English are like 
wild beasts. They are burning the crops and the 
villages, and killing the poor peasants, who cannot 
fight back, and, what is worse, they have been joined 
by many of the Flemish townsmen, who are now 
fighting against their own country.” 

“And is the King going against them?” asked 
Suzanne. 

“They say so.” 

“If monseigneur goes, I shall go with him,” said 
Suzanne. 

Again Isabelle suggested a disquieting thought. 

“Still, I should think he would rather not take you 
now. After all, a woman must be in the way in a 
campaign.” 

Suzanne sat upright. 

“I was with him before. I was not in the way then. 
I am strong. I do not get tired. It is not hard- 
ship to me.” 

“But the child?” 

“Well, I will take the child. Why not? Do you 


A Romance of Old Wars 223 

think I cannot look after my own baby?” She spoke 
sharply. 

“Don’t be angry, Suzanne,” pleaded Isabelle. “I 
didn’t mean to vex you.” 

“I am not angry,” said Suzanne; but her cheeks 
were red and her eyes were full of trouble. “It’s not 
that! 

“Isabelle! what should I do without him?” she cried 
suddenly. “I could not bear it ! Indeed, I could not ! 
Without him! I should be so utterly alone! What 
should I do amongst all this splendour if he left me? 
I don’t belong to it ! I feel that the very dresses 
he has given me would refuse to cover a peasant, were 
he not by to claim me as his wife. Without him I 
should be like a simpleton wandering along strange 
roads. I don’t know the way through life without him 
to show me. Isabelle! don’t you see that I am just 
I, and no different from what I used to be, except that 
I love him; and if he left me, everything would go! 
Everything ! everything !” 

“Hush ! hush ! Suzanne,” said Isabelle, alarmed at 
her vehemence. 

“Don’t you understand ?” asked Suzanne. 

“I think I do,” she said gently. “But, Suzanne, if 
he went, he would come back ! Think how he loves 
you ! Think how he married you ! Surely you trust 
him?” 

“Yes, I trust him,” said Suzanne, with a smile. 

But she could not forget Isabelle’s words, and every 
week brought fresh news of suffering in Flanders ; all 
Paris was talking of the encroaching English. 

“The King will certainly take arms against them.” 


2 24 A Romance of Old Wars 

'‘Why does he delay?” 

“It is unsupportable.” 

“Already sixty knights have gone to Comines.” 

“Surely monseigneur will not go without me!” 
moaned Suzanne, rocking her baby in her arms. “I 
could not bear it. He will not — he cannot leave me.” 

One evening, as she sat in the garden, she saw 
Matthieu coming towards her. He was dressed in 
plum colour; his dark face was eager. He passed 
through the trellis that divided the garden in two, and 
he came down the steps from the terrace. 

“NoH !” he cried excitedly, waving his cap. He 
took her hands. 

“Suzanne! Good news at last! The King sum- 
mons his army to meet at Arras on the fifteenth of 
August.” 

She looked up at him, struggling with white lips to 
speak. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, “will you come with me?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Jerome and Andre travelled slowly. They delayed 
at every hamlet, in order that the physician might sell 
his medicines, and often turned many miles out of 
their way to pass through villages where a profit might 
be made. 

Then Jerome fell ill, and for many weeks they were 
forced to remain at a wayside inn, leaving the donkey 
in payment when they again started on their way. 

They did not reach Paris till mid-July. 

• Early one morning, arriving from the South, they 
entered by the Porte St. Jacques, and slowly proceeded 
up the street of the same name towards the centre of 
the city. At first they passed between monastic build- 
ings and walls enclosing vineyards ; then they came to 
high, dark houses, irregular and crushed together, and 
seeming to squeeze the very air out of the narrow 
street between them. 

Jerome and the physician walked wearily, pushing 
their way with dispirited doggedness through the 
throng of bustling citizens and students. They were 
dusty, their gowns were weather-stained and frayed 
at the edges. Andre limped; his round cheeks were 
slightly sunk, and there were bags under his eyes. 
Jerome stalked beside him with long steps, but there 
was a feebleness and uncertainty in his gait. Once he 
staggered against a couple of students, and they turned 
225 


226 


A Romance of Old Wars 

upon him with abuse. From time to time Andre beat 
his drum with an effort for jauntiness. 

“Look here!” cried a collegian, stopping and point- 
ing at Jerome. “Here’s a show ! A living skeleton ! 
Ha ! ha I ha !” 

“Lord help us! it’s a death’s-head!” 

“Give us a dance, fellow; and let’s hear your joints 
crack !” 

“Be quiet, you fools!” cried another youth, with 
an air of affectation. “Bon Dieu ! Aren’t you 
ashamed? Why, he looks as if he had taken some 
wild sorrow captive, and that it was staring out of his 
eyes like a caged hawk.” 

His comrades replied with shouts of derision. 

“Listen to the poet!” 

“Inspired by a scarecrow ! Ha ! ha ! ha !” 

Jerome stalked on apparently unconscious of their 
gibes, but Andre grew red with anger. 

“You blind buffoons !” he cried, shaking his fist. 
“You unperceiving dolts ! You daft asses ! This 
man’s a saint!” 

Again a roar of laughter echoed between the over- 
hanging houses, and students from another college 
came running down the street to see what was going 
on. 

“What is it?” 

“What is happening?” 

Then one or two of them cried with a great shout. 

“Sainte Vierge ! it’s Jerome !” 

“Jerome! old Jerome come back ! Who would have 
thought it !” 

“Jerome! By all the Saints! it’s he!” 


A Romance of Old Wars 227 

They crowded round him, seizing his big passive 
hands, and slapping him on the shoulders with a 
boisterous welcome. 

Jerome turned his wild look upon them. 

“Yes,” he cried, “I have come back! I have come 
back! I have come back!” 

It was a cry of despair. 

They fell away from him in dismay, and exchanged 
questioning glances. The crowd of scoffers suddenly 
stopped laughing. 

Jerome strode on again, and they followed him in 
silence; and as they went, merchants, bourgeoises, 
apprentices paused to stare and question, and one after 
another they, too, followed with the rest. One woman 
fell on her knees and tried to kiss the ragged edge of 
his gown. 

. They crossed the Petit Pont, pushed through the 
narrow, tortuous alleys of the lie de la Cite ; and then 
they went over the Pont du Change, through the foul 
lanes of the Boucherie, and into the Halles. 

It was Saturday morning, and all the trades were 
selling in the central market, while the foreign mer- 
chants displayed their wares upon stalls in every neigh- 
bouring lane. The public executioner was taking his 
dues from the vegetable-mongers, and marking his 
receipts upon their backs with chalk ; and in one place 
a company of players had put up their stage, and were 
performing to a circle of bourgeoises and their maids, 
of idle apprentices and little eager, barefoot raga- 
muffins. As Jerome passed by, however, the crowd 
behind him roused their curiosity, and they, too, 
flocked after him to see what was going on. 


2 28 A Romance of Old Wars 


Amongst them was Isabelle and her maid. 

“What can it be?” she wondered. “Do you know 
what it is?” she asked an acquaintance. 

“I heard someone say it is a great saint.” 

“Really ? He is going to preach, no doubt.” 

“Did you hear his name?” 

“Come, let us listen.” 

“Is he going to preach now?” 

The people were murmuring expectantly, and as 
they approached the pulpit that stood in the market- 
place they collected round it and paused. 

Andre glanced at Jerome inquiringly. 

Jerome stopped; then he turned round, and for the 
first time he seemed to be aware of the crowd about 
him. 

His eyes flashed with a sudden alertness, and he 
went up into the pulpit. 

A subdued murmuring cheer rose from the people. 

At that moment Matthieu and several young nobles 
came riding through the Halles. 

“Tiens ! what’s the excitement ?” he said, reining in 
his horse. 

“Oh, it is only some new preacher. Come on.” 

But Matthieu, his eyebrows arched, a whimsical 
smile on his lips, was staring at the gaunt figure in 
the pulpit. 

“I’m going to listen,” he said. 

“Cordieu ! Are you going to turn holy ?” they cried. 

“I don’t think so,” said Matthieu; “but I’m going 
to hear what this man has got to say.” 

“Why, do you know him ?” 

“Cordieu!” cried Matthieu. “Do I know my own 


A Romance of Old Wars 229 

serf?’' And he drew up to the outskirts of the 
crowd. 

Jerome looked down on the expectant upturned 
faces, the tall coiffes of the women spreading above 
them like the petals of gigantic flowers. Suddenly he 
flung out his arms wide, and uttered a cry. “God ! 
God! God!” 

A shiver passed over the people. 

Then letting his arms fall, he pressed forward 
against the pulpit, and cried passionately : 

“Listen to Him! Kneel down and listen to Him! 
He is here — here, and in the silence of your hearts 
you may hear Him ! Oh, you men and women ! 
Spendthrifts of your lives! What are you about? 
Wasters of the silence God has given your souls ! Why 
do you fritter it away in the noise of care and thought ? 
Why do you come and go? Why do you laugh and 
chatter? What are you about? Why do you deck 
your bodies? Why do you prepare costly meats? 
Why do you buy and sell? What do all these things 
matter? Take off your finery, close your eyes, strip 
your minds of thought. Hush, and listen! listen! 
listen! Then you zvill knozv! Then you will realize 
that you are living, and that God is here ! Christ said : 
T know Mine, and Mine know Me.’ It is not wonder- 
ful that He should know His own, whom He created, 
whom He died for; but that men — human, ignorant, 
sinning — that they should know Him, and know Him 
with certainty, that is a miracle ! That is the knowl- 
edge and understanding which is given by the Holy 
Ghost ! A knowledge you cannot prove or refute, but 
which is Divine and certain — certain! 


230 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Oh, ignorant that you are ! What do you know ? 
The price of merchandise, the fashioning of a gown, 
the number of your possessions. What do you know ? 
The game of words, the tricks of reason. What do 
you know ? Do you know that you are blind of heart, 
ignorant, and lonely? Do you know that time has 
passed, is passing, and will pass? Do you know that 
you are alive? Oh, ignorant that you are! do you 
take life as a matter of course? How can you live, 
and forget that you live ? It is a miracle, a mystery ! 
Reason can tell you nothing about it. You cannot 
understand it, you cannot explain it. Are you not 
afraid of the life that God has given you? Are you 
not afraid to live and die? Oh, ignorant that you are ! 
Don’t you know that you will die? You will die!” he 
cried, pointing down amongst the people ; and a 
shudder of horror passed over them, as his finger in- 
dicated one after another. “You, and you, and 
you ! 

“As sure as you live, you will die !” he shouted, and 
he pointed at the horseman who waited on the edge 
of the crowd. 

And he stopped short, his arm outstretched. He 
was staring straight into Matthieu’s face. 

There was a moment’s silence ; then a sound of sob- 
bing, a moaning. Men and women fell upon their 
knees, stripping oflf their rings and chains, their coififes 
and girdles, and flinging them recklessly on the ground. 
Many women pulled down their hair, crying aloud ; one 
or two stood tearing their dresses into shreds. 

But Jerome seemed to see nothing but Matthieu. 
They gazed at each other in petrified silence. 


A Romance of Old Wars 231 

“Come clown !” whispered Andre, clambering half- 
way up into the pulpit. “Come down!” 

But Jerome did not move. 

Andre pulled at his gown. 

“Come away ! For God’s sake, come away !” he 
urged. “What possesses you to stand staring there? 
Jerome ! Jerome I in another minute you will be in the 
pillory.” 

Then Jerome let his arm fall to his side. He turned, 
and the next moment he was gone. 

Slowly Matthieu pulled his horse round, and rode 
clattering out of the market. 

His eyebrows were raised, and the lids were low 
over his eyes. His mouth was set in hard lines. 

“Curse him 1” he said. “Curse his ill-omened 
tongue !” 

As he turned out of the Rue St. Denys he met one 
of his former companions, who waved his hand to him 
gaily. 

“Hola !” he cried ; “has the preacher converted you ?” 

Matthieu laughed. 

“Poor devil!” he said. “He’s mad!” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Andre clutched Jerome by the arm, and pulled him 
along through the maze of streets surrounding the 
market. 

Jerome submitted blindly. He could not keep pace 
with the physician, and he stumbled, knocking his feet 
helplessly together. He was clutching at his chest, 
and panting in short breaths. They turned into the 
Rue St. Denys near the gate. 

Then Jerome stopped and stood still, swaying a little. 
He pointed two or three times towards the gate with 
a tremulous gesture. 

'‘Where are you going?” he gasped. 

“By St. Christopher !” said Andre, wiping the sweat 
from his forehead, “as far from Paris as possible!” 

“I won’t leave Paris!” gasped Jerome, leaning 
against the wall of a house. 

“Are you mad?” cried Andre. “Do you want to 
be branded, pilloried, flogged, and sent back to work 
on the land for the rest of your life? I tell you the 
Sieur will have you looked for, and Heaven help you 
if you are caught!” 

“I will not leave Paris !” muttered Jerome. 

Andre clasped his hands, and shook them over his 
head in a frenzy. 

“But listen to me!” he cried. “Jerome, they will 
hang you like a dog! You must come! You must! 
You must! 

232 


A Romance of Old Wars 233 

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Andre suddenly. “What 
is the matter?” 

Jerome’s head had fallen a little back; with one 
hand he was feeling about against the wall for some 
support, with the other he was continually wiping the 
corners of his mouth. 

“What is it?” cried Andre, in sudden dismay. 
“What is the matter with you ? Mon Dieu ! make 
an eflfort, Jerome! for my sake, make an effort. 
It is the heat that is making you faint! Jerome! 
do you hear me? You must, you shall escape. 
They shall not hang you. Lean on me, Jerome! 
Jerome !” 

A bourgeois stopped beside them. 

“Do you talk of escape to a dying man?” he said. 
“Why, that fellow won’t live to be hanged.” 

Andre glanced at the stranger for one moment, and 
then back at Jerome. 

“It’s not true!” he said. “He’s not dying?” 

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“Jerome!’ cried Andre. “Jerome! Jerome! It’s 
not true? You’re not dying?” 

Jerome with an effort raised himself and stood up 
straight, but the next moment he tottered forward and 
fell into Andre’s arms. 

They laid him down on the ground, Andre kneel- 
ing to support his head. Jerome looked from under 
his half-closed eyelids. 

“I want to confess,” he muttered. 

A woman who was passing stopped. 

“What is it?” she asked. “Eh, poor man! He 
looks bad.” 


234 A Romance of Old Wars 

Other people began to collect round them, peering 
over each other’s shoulders. 

^‘What is it?” 

“A poor man dying !” 

“A priest ! Go and fetch a priest !” 

“They will take him to the Hotel Dieu !” 

“Tiens !” cried a little ragged boy excitedly. “That’s 
the preacher, that is! Hi! hi!” he shouted. “Come 
and look here ! Here’s the preacher who was preach- 
ing in the Halles! He’s here! he’s dying!” and the 
child ran pattering down the street shouting his news. 

From all sides people came hurrying to see. 

“It is true?” 

“The preacher?” 

“I was there ! I heard him ! Let me pass ! I 
should know him again !” 

“Eh ! it is a face to remember.” 

“A saint! He is a saint!” 

Jerome looked vaguely at the stirring, shifting 
crowd round him; he seemed to recognise nothing. 

“I — I want to confess,” he muttered. 

No one heard him but Andre, who looked up, 
crying : 

“Go ! go ! Fetch a priest !” 

“Someone has gone, sir!” 

“Yes ! Paul, the saddler’s apprentice.” 

“And Jehan with him.” 

“A saint, did you say?” remarked the man who had 
first come. “A queer sort of saint that runs from the 
hangman.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well ! when I came up, his companion was urging 


A Romance of Old Wars 235 

him to escape, as he would certainly hang if he were 
caught. Take my word for it! that man’s a male- 
factor!” 

“I’ll not believe it! I heard him preach, and ” 

“BonDieu! What’s preaching?” 

“Saints have been persecuted before now.” 

“And run from the hangman, perhaps? A likely 
thing, indeed!” 

Their voices were loud and angry. A quiver 
passed over Jerome’s face. He tried to raise himself, 
and Andre, guesing what he wanted, half lifted him. 

“I want to confess!” he cried hoarsely. 

At the sound of a monotonous, tinkling bell, the 
people separated to let the priest and his acolyte pass, 
and closed up again behind them, pressing forward. 

The priest knelt down beside Jerome. 

“Stand back!” he said to the crowd, and they re- 
treated a few paces. 

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” said 
the priest, making the sign of the cross. 

Jerome’s wild eyes were filmy and unseeing. He 
had sunk back heavily against Andre’s arm. His lips 
were drawn and parched and hung open. He seemed 
unconscious. 

Then with a sudden clutch at life, his look met the 
priest’s, and his lips moved. 

“I want to confess,” he said, and died. 

There was a silence. For a moment no one moved 
or spoke. 

“May almighty and merciful God grant you pardon, 
absolution, and remission of sins !” said the priest 
solemnly. 


236 A Romance of Old Wars 

Andre laid him down gently, and crossed the big, 
thin hands upon his breast. Then rising, he abruptly 
pushed his way through the hushed throng and dis- 
appeared. 

A whisper passed from mouth to mouth. 

“He is dead 

“It is over.’’ 

“Can you see him?” 

“How thin he is !” 

“How peaceful he looks !” 

“Whoever seeks him now must seek in heaven,” 
cried an old man, in a high, tremulous voice; and one 
after another all the people knelt down. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Matthieu, however, took no steps to find Jerome. 

“Let him go,” he said. “If he is fool enough to 
come my way, I’ll have him hanged. But Til be 
damned if I want to see his face again, even to hang 
him.” 

A couple of days later Isabelle brought the news 
of the preacher’s death. 

“Dead, is he?” said Matthieu, looking startled. 
“Dead?” 

“I am sure something terrible is going to happen !” 
cried Isabelle hysterically. “I know I shall die! He 
looked straight at me 1 And no one knows who he was 
or where he came from, and the man who was with 
him has gone!” 

Matthieu scowled. He gave a short, angry laugh. 

“I knew him,” he said. “He was crazed. His 
brother is crazed too!” 

“Did you know him? Did you really?” cried Isa- 
belle. “Oh, monseigneur, do tell me ! Who was he ? 
What was his name ? Are you sure he was crazed ? 

“But even if he was,” she wailed, “it doesn’t make 
it any better. Mad people can often foretell disasters. 
I know I shall die.” She began to sob, rocking her- 
self to and fro. 

“Curse his ill-omened tongue!” muttered Matthieu 
gloomily. 

“He is well out of the way,” he thought, bracing 
237 


238 A Romance of Old Wars 

himself. “What am I about? Are a madman’s rav- 
ings to make a coward of me?” 

From time to time, however, Jerome’s wild words 
still recurred to him; but as the days went by, he 
found it easy to forget both his sermon and his death 
in the stir of preparation for the campaign. 

Matthieu was to ride in the company of the Admiral 
Jean de Vienne, taking no retinue except his own 
personal servants. 

“Therefore, there will be no necessity for me to go 
to Chatelfors myself,” he said, and sent Maitre Paul to 
ask Dame Mathilde for money. 

“Tell them I have much business on my hands, and 
so have not time to visit them before I start,” he said. 

“Yes, monseigneur,” said the secretary. He was 
standing slackly, carrying his hands, as usual, one 
upon the other, neatly folded till he should next want 
them. 

Suzanne was passing through the room. She stood 
still to listen. 

“Go and come back as quickly as you can travel,” 
said Matthieu. “Tell Dame Mathilde I must have 
the money. She must raise it by a tax, if there is 
no other way of getting it.” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“That is all,” said Matthieu. 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

The secretary pulled himself together, bowed, and 
turned to go, and Suzanne went on her way to the 
opposite door, reaching it with her long, swinging 
step, and passing out, before the secretary had shuffled 
half across the room. 


A Romance of Old Wars 239 

“Maitre Paul!” cried Matthieu. 

Maitre Paul turned. 

“Monseigneur?” 

“That is all I wish you to say.” 

The secretary looked at him inquiringly till he had 
settled what the Sieur might mean. 

“I understand,” he said huskily, after a moment. 
“Yes, monseigneur.” 

Suzanne asked no questions; she refused to con- 
template any misgivings that might occur to 
her. 

“I am happy now,” she said; “that is enough. 
I am going with him. Thank God ! Thank 
God 1” 

She was not even consciously anxious concerning 
his safety, though her mind was alert to any hint of 
danger. He had come through one campaign unhurt, 
and the sight of so many knights who had fought and 
escaped, who had been wounded and recovered, re- 
assured her. 

The days passed in a bustle of anticipation. 

Messengers came and went at all hours. Knights 
and their esquires filled the hotel early and late. They 
came to consult, and stayed to feast. Suzanne re- 
ceived them with the grave deliberation which gave 
dignity to her native courtesy. She never seemed dis- 
turbed by their numbers or by their tumult; she 
ignored their frank admiration, and her unconcern en- 
forced a respect which might have been denied to 
her as a peasant. She would sit amongst them, aloof 
in her serene silence, majestic in her primitive sim- 
plicity, while the company of turbulent knights sur- 


240 A Romance of Old Wars 

rounding the heavily-laden table drank and sang, 
shouted and laughed. 

Then, as the night advanced, she would leave her 
seat, and curtsey to the gorgeous half-drunken guests, 
who staggered to their feet to toast her. She was 
wakeful with happiness, and night after night she 
would lie with wide-open eyes, listening for Matthieu’s 
voice amongst the sounds of revelry below. 

Isabelle regarded her with envy. 

“Minstrels might sing about you and tell your story 
at feasts !” she said. “But nothing ever happens to 
me. I wish you were all going to stay in Paris. It 
is like reading a romance to know someone to whom 
things do happen. 

“I shall pray for you every day,” she said, “and 
I will make offerings to the poor for monseigneur’s 
safety.” 

Suzanne winced a little. 

“It must be a terrible anxiety to you,” said Isabelle 
sympathetically, but revelling in the possible tragedy. 
“Suzanne, what would you do if — if ” 

“Oh, hush!” cried Suzanne. “Why do you speak 
of such things?” 

Isabelle sighed and took her leave. As she crossed 
the courtyard, followed by her maid, she met Maitre 
Olivier the musician. 

“Good-day,” she remarked. “Oh, sir! I was just 
thinking what a dreadful thing is war.” 

He grew red with helpless rage, and flung out his 
fists, shaking them in front of her. 

“Dreadful!” he spluttered. “Holy Virgin! and I 
am a man of peace! I am a musician! What have 


A Romance of Old Wars 241 

I to do with war ? I say it is unreasonable to take me ! 
and the instruments! Who will care for the instru- 
ments? Dame Isabelle! who will care for them? 
They will suffer! They will spoil if left to ignorant 
hands/' 

“But " began Isabelle. 

“I have asked monseigneur. I have implored him 
to leave me behind ! I have reasoned with him !“ cried 
Maitre Olivier. “But he only laughs, and says that he 
wants me! 

“It is true,” he added conceitedly, “no one can play 
to him as I can ! But then, if I were killed, no one 
could take my place !” 

Isabelle laughed out loud, and Maitre Olivier, grow- 
ing crimson and inarticulate with indignation, again 
shook his fists before her, which made her laugh 
more. He struggled, choking for speech, and at 
last, finding relief in an oath, he rushed into the 
house. 

Day and night he haunted the music-room, which 
Matthieu had furnished with every kind of instrument 
— vielles, harps, psalteries, lutes, and two different 
kinds of organ. He would scarcely leave them even 
to eat and sleep, hurrying back as soon as he had swal- 
lowed a few morsels, and spending most of the night 
in playing dismal motets. 

Every day he renewed his petition to Matthieu. 

“You are getting fat and lazy,” said Matthieu with a 
grin. “A little exercise will do you good. Besides, 
I want you.” 

However, a little while after Maitre Paul had started 
on his mission, a messenger arrived from him to say 


242 A Romance of Old Wars 

that he had been attacked by robbers, and now lay at a 
hospice half-way between Paris and Chatelfors, too 
much hurt to continue his journey. 

Matthieu swore, and then sent for Maitre Olivier. 

“If you can get to Chatelfors and back here before 
the third of August,” he said, “you shall have your 
wish, and Pll leave you behind.” 

In half an hour Maitre Olivier had started, and on 
the first day of August he rode back, haggard with 
fatigue, but triumphant. 

“Bravo !” cried Matthieu, as he received the bag of 
money from him. “Well, what news from Chatel- 
fors?” 

Suzanne bent forward to listen. 

“None, monseigneur.” 

“How is my grandmother?” 

“I — I think well, monseigneur. I — I — she seemed 
well.” 

“You dog, don’t you know?” 

“I — I didn’t notice much, monseigneur. I only 
thought of getting back as — as quickly ” 

“And Dame Yolande?” interrupted Matthieu. 

“I saw her. Yes, monseigneur; and Madame 
Huette too.” 

There was a silence. 

“Did they send no messages?” asked Matthieu im- 
patiently. 

“This letter, sir.” He hunted in his wallet, and pro- 
duced it. 

As Matthieu took the letter a dark flush passed 
over his face. He read it slowly, frowning. It was 
merely a formal greeting from Dame Mathilde, end- 


A Romance of Old Wars 243 

ing with an injunction to him to be prudent and 
chivalrous, as all true knights should be. 

He tossed it on to the table with a sigh of relief, and 
glancing up, he saw Suzanne’s eyes fixed upon him 
with a look of entreaty. 

He went to her and kissed her hand. 

“Sweetheart, after the campaign we will go to 
Chatelfors,” he said. 

On August 2 the King went in state to St. Denys 
to take the Oriflarame, and thence the army started 
for Arras. 

Suzanne and her baby travelled in a litter, borne 
upon shafts by two horses, one in front and one be- 
hind. It was cushioned and draped with red cur- 
tains fringed with gold. 

She refused to take a woman with her. 

“What do I want with a maid?” she said. “I have 
nothing else to do but to look after my baby. I don’t 
want anyone to help me to do that. Besides, she 
would be another to provide for.” 

A proclamation of the King’s that no worhan, no old, 
weakly, or incapable men were to accompany the army 
alarmed her for herself; and though the order was 
very generally disregarded, it strengthened her resolu- 
tion to have no extra woman with her. 

By the middle of August the army had mustered 
at Arras. Here news was brought them that the Eng- 
lish had raised the siege at Ypres, and had taken 
refuge in Bergues. They marched to besiege Bergues, 
but on their arrival they found that the English had 
again decamped, sacking the town and carrying their 
plunder to Gravelines. The French army entered the 


244 ^ Romance of Old Wars 

ruined town unopposed. They delayed only to slay 
ruthlessly well-nigh all those who had been left be- 
hind, and thence they marched westward to Gravelines. 

Note. — The monks of St. Denys and Froissart give differ- 
ing accounts of the sieges of Bergues and Gravelines. I have 
followed that of the monks of St. Denys. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


It was near the end of September when the French 
army pitched their tents before Gravelines. The King 
sent a herald to summon the enemy to yield, but the 
reply was an indignant refusal, and the siege began 
in earnest. 

The town was blockaded on one side, the gates being 
watched by detachments of men-at-arms, while a series 
of assaults were organized at different points. The 
enemy, however, were vigilant, keeping a strict guard 
night and day, and the attacks of the French knights 
were met and baffled by a steady courage. On the 
third day orders were given to construct movable 
towers and rams, and stone-throwing mangonels and 
balistas. 

There was little fighting that day; the camp re- 
sounded with the clangour of hammering and sawing, 
and the creaking of heavy machines. Suzanne was 
alone with her baby in Matthieu’s tent. She was 
sitting upon a low stool, leaning forward to rock the 
plain oak cradle with one hand, while, her elbow on her 
knee, she propped her chin upon the open palm of the 
other. 

She was sumptuously dressed to please Matthieu in 
a gown of green edged with gold embroidery, but 
her face looked tired and anxious beneath the high 
steeple coiffe with its long veil. 

The child was fretful and would not sleep. He 


245 


246 A Romance of Old Wars 

whimpered crossly, and at last broke into a loud 
wail. 

“Oh, hush! oh, hush!” she murmured, kneeling 
down beside the cradle. 

The tiny red-faced creature stopped crying, and 
waved his arms helplessly and urgently. She laughed 
and lifted him up, talking softly to him in her deep, 
tender voice. 

“Why, come, then! Is he so brave? He wants to 
fight already, and help to win the battle! And after 
all, why should h'e sleep when the sun is shining, and 
shining all for him ? All for him and for monseigneur, 
who is so magnificent ! 

“I wonder where he is?” she murmured. “They 
are not fighting to-day. Ah, Holy Virgin Mary ! grant 
that the town may soon yield !” 

She went to the entrance and pulled back the cur- 
tain. 

The sun was behind her, casting the tent’s shadow 
in a patch before it, and shining upon the row of tents 
opposite. A light breeze was blowing, and ripples ran 
over the surface of the canvas. She hesitated, looking 
to right and left. No one was to be seen, though the 
noise of voices and hammering sounded close by. 

“Suppose we go out,” she murmured to the baby. 
“Suppose we go and see what they are doing.” 

And she strolled slowly down the lane between the 
tents. 

She came presently to an open space, where a swarm 
of men, their arms bared, were sawing and hacking 
great pieces of wood, swinging them into place by 
pulleys, fitting and hammering them together, and 


A Romance of Old Wars 247 

climbing over the half-finished machines with short 
ladders. In the sunlight each beam of the skeleton 
structures was delicately defined with pale light and 
shade. 

Suzanne paused to watch, and through the Babel of 
casual talk and shouted directions she caught the 
phrases of those nearest her. 

“There will be music when these begin to work. 
Eh, Pierre?” 

“They’ll dance to the tune of tumbling walls. Ha, 
ha!” 

“Where are the ropes for the balistas ?” 

“They can see us from the walls!” cried a man, 
leaning out of a compartment half-way up the wooden 
tower in which the battering-ram was to be fixed. 

“Ha, ha ! it’s a sight that ’ll cheer them up !” 

“There are a couple of them on the battlements talk- 
ing together,” cried the man in the tower. “They’re 
pointing towards us. By Heaven ! I believe they are 
quarrelling.” 

“They’ll get no quarter.” 

“Nor deserve any.” 

“The town is to be given up to pillage.” 

Suzanne walked slowly away again. 

“No quarter !” she thought. “They’ll get no quarter, 
and they’ll give none. 

“I’m not brave,” she whispered, bending her head 
over her child. “No, I’m not brave. 

“He fought at Rosbecque,” she thought, “and he 
received no hurt. Why shouldn’t he escape again?” 

That evening, as Matthieu and Suzanne sat at 
supper, the quiet of the camp was broken by a sub- 


248 A Romance of Old Wars 

clued movement. They heard the soft tread of passing 
feet, and the murmur of hushed voices. 

Matthieu paused with his goblet in his hand to lis- 
ten. Suzanne, alert with apprehension, was watching 
him. 

Someone stopped outside ; they heard a hurried 
whisper, and another figure brushed up against the 
tent. 

“Prisoners — the Admiral — almost certain.’’ 

Matthieu put down his goblet and stood up. 

Suzanne rose also. She fetched his sword and 
buckled it on him. 

A low voice called from outside. “Monseigneur de 
Chatelfors !” 

“Come in,” said Matthieu. 

The curtain was pulled aside, and an esquire 
entered. 

“The Admiral calls a council of knights,” he said. 
“Come quickly and secretly.” 

“I am ready,” said Matthieu, with exultation. 

He took Suzanne in his arms. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, “to-morrow you shall wear 
the finest jewels that are to be found in Gravelines.” 

She smiled at him tremulously. 

His face was alight with eagerness, and the silent 
laughter of excitement shone in his eyes, and was at 
play upon his lips. 

He looked back as he passed out of the tent and 
gaily kissed his hand to her. Suzanne smiled at him 
again. 

When he was gone, she sat down by the table oppo- 
site to his empty place, to wait. 


A Romance of Old Wars 249 

Matthieu questioned the esquire as they went 
through the dark, silent camp. 

“The English have gone,” replied the young 
man. 

“Gone!” 

“Yes, the cowards I” 

“How do you know?” 

“Three prisoners — they say they are Picards — broke 
their chains while the English and the citizens were 
quarrelling. They climbed down the walls, and 
brought the news to the Admiral, who holds the watch 
to-night.” 

“They may be spies.” 

“One cannot be sure, of course; but it sounds like 
truth. They are under arrest.” 

“The English gone ! Is it possible ?” 

“By St. Anne! when they saw the balistas prepar- 
ing, they turned chicken-hearted and packed their 
waggons. The citizens tried to prevent them, but they 
wouldn’t stay — not they! They went off to kill the 
guard at one of the gates, and by this time they are 
gone.” 

“Will the Admiral attack?” 

“I hope so.” 

On entering the tent of Messire Jean de Vienne they 
found a company of knights already there, fully 
armed. 

The consultation was short; all urged the attack, 
and they only stayed to define their plan. 

Silently they went out into the camp, and mustered a 
following of picked men. They passed the watch, 
who let them by with a sign of intelligence, and moved 


250 A Romance of Old Wars 

on towards the bank of the river which lay between 
them and the town. 

It was a still, dark night; dull clouds had gathered 
and hung between them and the stars. Gravelines, 
within its walls, looked like some vast fortress. The 
battlements were apparently deserted, but they could 
hear a distant noise within the town. 

“The Picards spoke truly.'’ 

“By St. Denys ! we shall do it.” 

The river was flowing stealthily between its banks ; 
it was profoundly black, yet they could discern its 
silent movement onwards. 

They proceeded to where a boat was moored, and 
as many as it would hold embarked, and pushed oflf. 
The rest awaited their turn in a mute, dimly-seen 
crowd. 

As soon as the last boat-load had landed they ad- 
vanced together, and with ladders and ropes scaled the 
walls unchallenged. 

They passed along the battlements, and calmly 
descended into the town. 

The streets were dark, except for occasional passing 
torches, and the people they met took no notice of 
these leisurely knights and men-at-arms. 

As they approached the market the noise of discord 
grew louder, and they could see dark forms moving 
under the flare of torches. 

They pressed forward until they were well m the 
midst of the crowd of citizens, and then, with a sudden 
shout, they revealed themselves. 

“Jean de Vienne for ever! France and Jean de 
Vienne I” 


A Romance of Old Wars 251 

In one instant a wild turmoil filled the market-place. 
Cries of despair rang above the clamour of the French 
soldiers. 

“We are lost!” 

“The town is taken I” 

“The French! The French!” 

The torch-bearers flung their torches on to the 
ground and joined the frantic, confused flight. In the 
dark they stumbled over the bodies of those who were 
falling wounded or dead, and blundered on to the 
weapons of the very men from whom they were fly- 
ing. Some few who were armed turned to grapple 
with the invaders, and one after another were over- 
come. 

“To the gates ! Kill the guard !” shouted the 
French. “To the gates! To the gates!” 

Day was dawning, revealing their faces, gray in the 
chill light, and savagely exultant. 

“By Heaven, Matthieu !” cried the Chatelain de 
Beauvais. “You’ve a tough pig of a Fleming there.” 

Matthieu laughed, as he wounded the stalwart 
bourgeois with a sword-thrust. 

“Help ! Mercy !” gasped the man as he fell, and a 
Flemish man-at-arms attacked Matthieu from behind, 
slightly wounding him in the left arm. Matthieu 
wheeled round with a curse, and engaged with him 
fiercely. 

“The Admiral has sent to the camp,” cried Pierre 
de Vilaines, as he passed them. “The rest of the army 
will be here soon.” 

“Take what you can get before they come!” cried 
someone. 


252 A Romance of Old Wars 

Matthieu was pressing his opponent hard; the man 
retreated backwards step by step out of the market- 
place, and into an alley barely three feet wide. Mat- 
thieu laughed. His face was ghastly in the pale light, 
his eyes were brilliant, and he laughed again as the 
man panted for breath. 

“Help ! help !’’ gasped the Fleming. But the alley 
was deserted; the houses, towering on each side of 
them with closed windows and doors, seemed blind and 
repellent. 

“Help! help!” he cried again. 

A window close above them opened, and a man 
looked out. He gave a call, which was answered from 
a little distance, and leaping into the street, he at- 
tacked the Sieur. 

“Good-morning,” said Matthieu gaily. 

“Tiens! How many more of you am I to expect?’’ 
he asked, as two other men appeared running down 
the alley. 

He set his back to the wall of the house, and calcu- 
lated his chances, whilst he kept them at bay. It was 
not likely to be long before some of his countrymen 
should come that way. Still, they were four to one, 
and unless help came speedily, he could not hope to 
hold out against them. 

Suddenly he laughed. 

“Do you hear?” he asked. 

A grim uproar, approaching in waves, told him that 
the whole army had entered the town. 

“Do you hear?” he asked again, as the howling came 
nearer and nearer. 

“Do you see ?” he cried. 


A Romance of Old Wars 253 

From the end of the alley a yelling mob, brandish- 
ing pikes and axes, came surging towards them; and 
as they came they hurled themselves at the doors of 
the houses, and screams rang through the hitherto 
silent buildings. 

'‘A moi!” cried Matthieu; but even as he called one 
of the Flemings wounded him deeply in his right arm 
and shoulder. He reeled, and his sword fell from a 
helpless hand. 

moir he cried hoarsely. 

They struck him to the ground, and then fled as a 
fresh horde of soldiers swarmed into the street. 

Matthieu heard with dull ears the confused roar o*f 
voices. The houses were blurred to his sight, and 
seemed to be toppling over him. 

With a passionate effort for life he lifted his head, 
and he saw, as if through a mist, an indistinct, wa- 
vering mob of phantom soldiers. 

'‘A moir he gasped. 

Suddenly they loomed, larger than life, real and 
innumerable, coming headlong towards him. He dis- 
cerned their ferocious, upturned faces, and realized 
that they were reckless of him. He tried to cry out, 
but could make no sound. 

There was a moment’s agony of bruising, trampling 
feet, a helpless struggle, a horror of suffocation, and 
then oblivion, as they rushed stumbling and cursing 
over his prostrate body. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Throughout that night Suzanne sat in the tent 
waiting and listening. 

Matthieu had gone ! gone ! and to what ? Her heart 
was heavy with a haunting dread. He had gone and 
left her to the suffering of silence and of ignorance. 
Had they attacked the town ? Why, then, did she hear 
nothing ? 

Matthieu had passed out into the night, and with 
him had gone all sound of life. There was nothing for 
her to do but to wait and listen to the intolerable quiet. 

All at once a distant, hoarse noise like the threaten- 
ing of a storm startled her quick ears. She sprang to 
her feet and listened with terror, as it grew harsher 
and more distinct. 

Then she sank down by the table, covering her eyes 
with her hands. 

“O God! have pity!” 

The baby woke and whimpered. She roused her- 
self to feed him, and he slept again. 

At dawn the camp woke to clamorous movement, 
and she went to the door of the tent. 

A man was running by, shouting. She called to 
him. 

“The town is taken !” he cried over his shoulder. 

“We shall all be rich to-night!” laughed a lank 
youth, as he, too, ran by. 


254 


A Romance of Old Wars 255 

“Come on ! come on !“ cried a third man. “The town 
is taken, and is ours to pillage.’’ 

Suzanne went back to wait; her dull patience had 
vanished before the restlessness of hope. 

The town taken! The French successful! 

“He may come back soon,” she thought, and smiled 
as she remembered his return after Rosbecque. 

She bestirred herself to make ready for him, and 
went out to seek a servant. But the camp was empty. 
Servants, men-at-arms, knights, had all gone to take 
their share of the plunder, and the tumult in the 
town rose and fell in great waves of sound. 

In the cloudy dawn the tent was cheerless; the fur- 
niture looked unfriendly to her tired eyes. 

She came and went, preparing for Matthieu’s return, 
and when that was done, she sat down again to 
wait. 

A sudden swelling of the uproar made her run to 
look out. From one quarter of the town smoke was 
rolling up into the air, and as she watched, it was 
slashed with flames. 

“God help them !” she murmured, as another column 
of smoke rose and spread, and was dissolved by leap- 
ing fire. 

The hours passed slowly. She tended her child and 
fed him. He wriggled contentedly in her arms, 
and looked up at her with his pretty, uncertain 
laughter. 

“When will he come? When will he come?” she 
moaned, pacing up and down. 

“Will he never come?” 

She stood still to listen. 


256 A Romance of Old Wars 

“They are coming back!’’ she cried, and tore open 
the tent’s curtain. 

A stream of men, dragging sacks and bundles, 
dishevelled, blood-stained, and blackened with smoke, 
were issuing from the town, and straggling into camp. 

“Stop ! stop I” she cried to a man who was hurrying 
past. “Wait one moment! Have you seen Monsei- 
gneur de Chatelfors?” 

“Not I !” he cried. “I had other fish to fry.” 

“Monseigneur de Chatelfors !” echoed another man. 
“Oh, he is dead, he is.” 

Suzanne caught her breath as if she had been struck. 
She turned white. 

Then, gathering her strength, she ran after him and 
caught him by the arm. 

“Are you sure ?” she cried harshly. “Do you know 
it?” 

“Don’t catch hold of me like that!” he replied, 
shaking her off. “I only know that Pierre Loyson 
told me he saw him fall.” 

She let him go, and thought rapidly. 

“He does not know ! It is only hearsay ! It may 
not be true! But I cannot wait here, knowing noth- 
ing. I cannot! I cannot!” 

With the baby in her arms she left the camp. 

Boats were constantly passing to and fro, carrying 
the soldiers across the river, and she took her place 
in one of them. 

The gates of Gravelines now stood open, and the 
way was free into the devastated town. 

Suzanne walked slowly along the tortuous streets, 
sick with horror as she passed the limp, mutilated 


A Romance of Old Wars 257 

bodies that lay in her path, half stripped by the pil- 
lagers. Many were women and children. Some were 
lying face downwards, and she stooped over them to 
peer at their hidden features. 

The streets still swarmed with French soldiers. 
Once a company of two or three stopped her. 

'T am a French woman,” she said, in her deep 
voice. ‘T am looking for my husband. Don’t kill 
me !” and they let her go. 

The house doors were bashed in, the windows 
broken. In the dark passages there lay huddled forms. 
She went in and looked amongst them. Some that she 
passed were still living. 

“Matthieu! Matthieu!” she whispered. ‘‘God help 
me!” At last she entered the market-place, and she 
hesitated, sick at heart. 

Scores of men-at-arms were moving to and fro. 
plundering the dead, entering and issuing from the 
houses, and an occasional shriek rang above the hum 
of their jesting and squabbling. 

Suzanne continued her search. 

“He is not here 1” 

“Maybe he is safe ! Maybe he is even now back in 
the camp.” 

She turned out of the market into a deserted alley. 
It was very quiet and dark between the tall houses. 
The slain here were few. Suzanne proceeded slowly 
along the narrow street. 

Then she saw him. 

He lay with his white face turned up towards the 
sky, his cotte-d’armes torn to shreds, blood-stained 
and foul with mud. 


258 A Romance of Old Wars 

For an instant she stood staring down at him, her 
hand at her throat, her eyes dilating with despair. 
Then she fell on her knees beside him and bent over 
him. 

He breathed ! He was not dead ! 

She put down the sleeping child beside him, and 
undid his helmet. She took it off, and sped to the 
fountain in the market-place and filled it with water. 
Kneeling beside him once more, she bathed his fore- 
head and moistened his lips. She looked wildly up 
and down the street! No one was to be seen I No 
help was possible! No one was near but the plunder- 
ing soldiers. 

'‘What shall I do ? What can I do ?” she moaned. 

As she looked down again, she saw that his eyes 
were open, and fixed upon her with recognition. She 
uttered a little gasping cry. 

His look entreated her ; he wanted something. 
She held water to his mouth, but he did not 
drink. 

His lips moved ; she bent over him. 

“The child.” 

“He is here with me,” she replied. 

“Take — him — to — Chatelfors.” 

“I promise,” she said. 

“What can I do?” she cried, half rising. “Some- 
one must come ! Someone must help me ! Ah, 
Matthieu !” 

A strangeness came over his face; his eyes grew 
blind and fixed, his cheeks drawn, his wide, pathetic 
lips fell apart. 

“Matthieu!” she cried sharply, and bent over him 


A Romance of Old Wars 259 

m terror. She touched his hands ; they were horribly 
cold. 

“I cannot believe it,” she said dully. 

Presently she took her sleeping child in her arms, 
and sat down beside him. 

“I knew it ! I knew it ! There was no hope !” 

The light faded as she sat there hour after hour. 
The smell and taste of burning hung in the still air, 
and the noise of the pillagers lasted far into the 
night. 

The dense darkness between the high houses hid 
him almost entirely from her; she could just discern 
his motionless form, and the faint grayness of his face. 

She stared down at him, trying to pierce the impene- 
trable night. 

Then the slow dawn cleared the shadows from over 
him, and she saw him again, still and mute in the 
strangeness of death. 

The pale light grew stronger; the tall houses with 
their gaping doorways became solid, and with the 
day she looked up. 

A company of monks clad in dark gowns were mov- 
ing amongst the dead in the narrow street, and bear- 
ing them away upon hurdles. Two of them looked 
towards where she was sitting, her tall coiffe making 
her conspicuous in her solitude, and they approached. 

She lifted her eyes to the face of the elder monk. 

“He is dead,” she said. 

The monk knelt down beside Matthieu. The other 
brother stood by, his hands in his sleeves. 

“May he rest in peace !” he said after a moment. 

“Will you bury him?” she asked. 


26o a Romance of Old Wars 


“We will take him to our church now/’ he replied. 
“Who was he?” 

“The Sieur de Chatelfors,” she said. 

He glanced at her. 

“And you? You are ” 

“I was his wife,” said Suzanne, and tears suddenly 
filled her eyes. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


The two monks raised Matthieu and placed him on 
a hurdle. They thrust his sword into the scabbard, 
and laid his helmet and shield by his side, and they 
crossed his hands on his breast. Then, raising the 
hurdle, they carried him with steady tread through 
the streets. Suzanne followed as if dazed. Her baby 
was crying, and she was trying patiently to quiet 
him. On their way they met other monks bearing 
the dead to burial, and more rarely the wounded to 
the hospice. 

The doors of the churches stood open, and as they 
passed Suzanne saw figures moving to and fro, and 
kneeling beside motionless bodies. 

The monastery stood a little way outside the town, 
within high walls. The monk pulled the bell, and 
the gate was instantly opened by a lay-brother. Here, 
too, quiet figures were busy amongst the dead, who 
had been laid under the cloisters. 

They bore Matthieu across the grass quadrangle, 
and mounted the steps to the church, and as the hurdle 
slanted it seemed to Suzanne that Matthieu rose to his 
feet, alive for one moment, but looking beyond her 
into an infinite distance. 

The other monk mounted the steps; the hurdle lay 
straight once more between them; they passed under 
the doorway and up the central aisle. Here they put 
him down. 


261 


262 A Romance of Old Wars 


Suzanne followed and knelt beside him, while the 
monks came and went, bringing candlesticks and ar- 
ranging tlVem round the straight young figure. His 
head had fallen a little back, exposing the clear curve 
of his chin and neck; his lips were parted, his dark 
eyes were dull and sightless, his black hair was matted 
in thick strands. The purple cotte-d'armcs was tat- 
tered and filthy with black mud, and the breastplate 
beneath it was crushed in. His vigorous hands had 
paled under the brown of sunburn, and lay docilely as 
the monks had placed them, crossed upon his broken 
armour. 

One of the brothers, with a bundle of candles 
cradled in the curve of his arm, was fixing them one by 
one on to the pikes of the candlesticks, and the other 
followed him, lighting them with a taper. The flames 
dwindled and grew, and cast flickering shadows on 
the still white face, and were reflected in a shattered 
pool of light by his armour. 

Suzanne knelt erect and motionless. Her face was 
as white as Matthieu’s, and awed at the strangeness of 
despair ; her lips were set as if she were in pain. Her 
youth had gone from her in that day and night. 

The monks left her there. 

‘‘Let her pray undisturbed,” said Brother Hi- 
liare. 

She heard him, and felt guilty of deceit. 

“I am not praying,” she thought. “He is dead, but 
I cannot pray. 

“He is dead, dead, dead!” she whispered, painfully 
trying to realize it. “Why do I feel nothing?” 

The motionless figure on the hurdle, so unlike Mat- 


A Romance of Old Wars 263 

thieu, seemed that of a stranger. She could not rid 
herself of the feeling that were she to return to the 
camp, she would find him still there, and still hear 
his imperious voice. 

“I know that he is dead,” she said, “but I cannot 
believe it.” 

The baby awoke. He was hungry, and his wailing 
broke out afresh, rousing her to a sense of the present 
need. 

“Hush, hush!” she murmured, rising. “Hush, 
hush I” 

She glanced up and down the church. No one was 
there, and she moved quickly to the door and out into 
the daylight. In the quadrangle she found a lay- 
brother, who took her to the hostelry and served 
her. 

Alone in a clean, bare room, she busied herself with 
her child, and by degrees he grew quiet and contented. 
His eyelids dropped, and drawing an occasional sob- 
bing breath, he fell asleep. 

Suzanne was very tired, and presently she, too, slept, 
leaning against the upright back of the massive elbow- 
chair. The sleeping baby rested on her lap, his head 
on her forearm; her other arm lay lightly over him, 
the hand clasping the hand that cradled him. Her 
coiffe pointed over the chair’s back, and the soft veil 
was crushed forward upon each side of her white 
face and neck. 

While she slept a young monk knocked at the door. 
Receiving no answer, he looked in. 

“Tiens!” he murmured, and was about to enter, 
when Brother Hilaire pulled him back. 


264 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Don’t wake her,” he said. 

“But, Brother, we are going to bury the knight.” 

“Still let her sleep,” he insisted. 

The young man looked distressed and perplexed. 

“Surely the holy rites would be a consolation?” he 
began. 

“My son,” said Brother Hilaire, “when the good 
God gives sleep to those that suffer, why should we 
take it upon ourselves to wake them? Come away.” 
And he drew him out into the passage and shut the 
door. 

When Suzanne woke from the profound sleep of 
exhaustion the sun was high in the sky. She opened 
her eyes and gazed vaguely at the clear light which 
shone in through the paneless window. The strange- 
ness of her surroundings struck her. Before falling 
asleep she had scarcely noticed the room where she 
sat. Every sense had been concentrated upon the 
crisis she was living through, and each moment of the 
past hours had preoccupied her with its pain, leav- 
ing no room for other consciousness. Yet the very 
intensity of her impressions seemed to have outstripped 
her power of suffering, and she had wondered why she 
felt so little when she knew she had lost him. 

Now a dreamless sleep had put a gap of oblivion 
between her and the sorrow that had dazed her. 

Still drowsy, she took note of the high bare room 
strewn with rushes. She heard soft padding steps 
pass outside the door, and she sat up listening, sud- 
denly apprehensive. The church bell rang, and at the 
first sound she remembered where she was, and what 
had happened. 


A Romance of Old Wars 265 

She leant back again, staring blindly in front of her, 
in the immobility of desolation. 

The child roused her. He moved in his sleep, turn- 
ing his head, and lifting his fist to his mouth. She 
felt him stir in her arms, and a rush of tears filled her 
eyes, raining down her cheeks. She looked down at 
him through the hot mist of hurrying tears, tears that 
overwhelmed her, the inarticulate utterance of her 
awakening emotions. The fierce clear vision of her 
mind was softened, and her grief became more intimate 
and tender. Then, too, the necessity for action braced 
her. Matthieu had bidden her take the ‘child to Cha- 
telfors, and his behest was like a hand held out to her 
in her solitude, a voice across the silence that had come 
between them. It was the only legacy that she felt 
was hers by right. Now that Matthieu was dead she 
instinctively renounced her claim to all the splendour 
with which he had surrounded her. His presence had 
given her dignity; as his wife she had accepted the 
magnificence of her position as a reasonable thing. 
But with his death all glamour vanished, leaving her 
discovered a mere peasant, and in her own eyes the 
incongruity between her simplicity and the life in 
which he had placed her admitted of no question. It 
never occurred to her that she should have any lasting 
claim to his wealth and position. The child was now 
the Sieur, but she, his mother, was a peasant, and her 
passionate love for him was mingled with much of the 
reverence she had felt for Matthieu. This little baby 
was of noble blood, and far above her, born to honour, 
riches, and power. 

Chatelfors! she must take him to Chatelfors! It 


266 A Romance of Old Wars 


was his home, where he would grow up to bear his 
father’s name, like him be a knight, and as strong and 
as magnificent. 

The tolling of the bell began again, and the sound 
of it brought Matthieu’s motionless form before her 
eyes as he lay in the church. 

She shifted the child on her arm, careful not to 
wake him, and rising, she went to the door. After a 
moment’s hesitation, she found her way along chill, 
deserted passages, into the cloisters, and here she again 
paused. 

A little crowd of men and women were waiting in 
the quadrangle, leaving a passage between them to 
the church door. Many of them were kneeling. Su- 
zanne wondered why they were waiting there. Their 
faces were turned away from her towards the church, 
and her look also travelled across the sunny court to 
the open door, which seemed to lead into a limitless 
dusk. Under the dim pillars she could discern moving 
forms, and moving, star-like lights. A sound of chant- 
ing came and went in irregular rhythm. 

The little flames of the lights hesitated as if hover- 
ing in the air; they clustered together, and then, dis- 
entangling, approached the door in two uneven lines, 
and at the same time the chanting came nearer. At 
the door the lights faded in the sunshine, and the 
straight white candles, the cowled monks carrying 
them, and the crucifix borne aloft at the head of the 
procession, emerged out of the obscurity. As they 
descended the steps and slowly advanced between the 
kneeling people, a subdued sound of lamentation min- 
gled with the chant. Behind them four monks carried 


A Romance of Old Wars 267 

a bier covered with a cloth, and behind these came four 
more and another bier, and still others, in what seemed 
to be an endless stream. Yet, when Suzanne glanced 
along the cloisters, she saw many dead awaiting their 
turn to be carried to burial. 

Horror petrified her. Again she began to receive 
impressions with that terrible distinctness which made 
her feel as if her eyes were lidless, and could never 
close again. 

The long procession passed through a gateway, the 
people rising at the last, and following after them, 
and the sound of chanting died away into the distance, 
leaving a silence which was marked only by the 
changeless tolling of the bell. 

Suzanne felt a sudden dread. 

Matthieu ! Could he have been amongst those 
others? Ah, no! no! a thousand times, no! He, 
a knight and the Sieur de Chatelfors ! It was impossi- 
ble ! They would bury him with pomp, a blaze of 
candles, a solemn requiem 

Matthieu ! Matthieu ! At the thought of enclosing 
him in a grave tears again filled her eyes. 

She crossed the quadrangle, and went up the steps 
into the church. 

At first she could see nothing. Then, as her eyes 
grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw that the 
aisle was empty! 

He was gone! 

They had taken him away, and she would never 
see him again. She pressed her hand to her throat, 
gazing with wild eyes at the place where he was not. 

She did not notice that the bell had ceased tolling, 


268 A Romance of Old Wars 

nor did she hear the soft steps of a monk approaching 
her. 

The brother recognised her. He understood, and 
answered her mute anguish. 

“Pardon, dame,” he said. “We buried him this 
morning. We have so much to do in these days of 
disaster. You were asleep, dame, and Brother Hilaire 
bade us not wake you.” 

Her lips formed the word “Where?” 

He led the way to a side-chapel, and indicated a 
stone in the floor, outlined with open cracks. 

Was he there? Was it possible that he lay beneath 
the pavement at her feet? She wanted to realize 
it, to know that she was near him, but the smooth 
stone, in no way different from any other, baffled her. 
She could only realize that he was irrevocably gone. 

She raised her eyes to the monk’s face, as if be- 
seeching him to help her, and then she looked hurriedly 
round the empty church. 

“If madame should prefer a monument later 
on ” he began. 

Suzanne bowed her head, speechless, and, turning 
away from him, she went swiftly down the church and 
out of the door. 

The monk watched her go with a shrug of his 
shoulders and a gesture of indifference. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Suzanne went straight across the quadrangle to the 
gate, and opening it for herself, she went out into the 
road. 

He was gone ! gone ! She knew it now. As long 
as he lay there in the church she felt that he still 
counted for something in her life, though that some- 
thing was a bewildering pain, but now he was hope- 
lessly gone. 

She began to walk towards Gravelines. 

There was no reason why she should stay any 
longer at the monastery. There was nothing to keep 
her there now. There, as elsewhere, she was alone. 
Besides, she must start for Chatelfors. Matthieu had 
bidden her go there, and she felt the same imperative 
haste to obey him as when he was alive and impatient 
of the least delay. His command, too, gave a shape to 
her future, and across the long waste of solitary days 
that were before her, Chatelfors gave her the support 
of a definite aim. 

She would start instantly; she would take the road 
now. She had money in her pouch to buy food, and 
she could ask the way. Instinctively she had resumed 
a peasant’s point of view. It was quite natural to her 
that at Matthieu’s death all her state should crumble 
away. As Matthieu’s wife ways and means had been 
procured for her as if by enchantment. Now she 
must shift for herself, and she who had travelled in a 
269 


2/0 


A Romance of Old Wars 


litter would now go on foot. In her simplicity she 
accepted the change as a matter of course. She was 
quite ignorant of the probable dangers and difficulties 
that lay in store for her. It all seemed so straight- 
forward. Matthieu had bidden her go to Chatelfors, 
and Chatelfors lay somewhere south of Paris. There 
was nothing for her to do but to start. 

‘Tf I go always towards the south, I must reach it 
in time,” she thought. 

She did not pass through Gravelines, but skirted 
the town upon the south side. As she advanced a 
dull uproar reached her ears, recalling the distant din 
she had heard on the night that the town was taken, 
and the sound filled her with a vague fear. Could it 
be that they were fighting again? Had the English 
returned and attacked them? But when she came 
within sight of the camp she saw no signs of fight- 
ing. Yet the tumult rose from there. As she came 
nearer she could see a swarm of soldiers astir between 
the tents, and gradually the blurred uproar became 
distinct with noise and revelry. The whole camp 
resounded with the howling of drunken songs, the 
shouted bargaining over booty, with riotous laughter, 
cursing, and quarrelling. 

Suzanne stood for one moment on the river’s brink 
looking across. Beside her rose the silent devastated 
town with its gaping gateways. 

'‘Matthieu ! Matthieu !” she whispered. 

She turned away from both camp and town, and 
began to walk southward along the towing-path. 

Some way ahead of her she could see a barge glid- 
ing through the water, the taut tow-rope quivering 


A Romance of Old Wars 271 

in the air, and the bargeman plodding behind his 
horse. 

The highroad at first lay on the other side of the 
river, but after about a mile and a half it was brought 
across, and continued upon the right bank. Here 
Suzanne turned to look back. The tents of the French 
camp were gleaming in the sunshine, and the town, 
with its battlemented walls and clustered roofs, showed 
no signs of the ruin within, except that from one place 
smoke was slowly rising, and spreading in the still 
air. 

To her dismay, she saw two men coming after her. 
They carried bundles slung over their shoulders, and 
she guessed that they were deserters from the French 
army making off with their booty. 

She hurried her steps, but her long dress impeded 
her, and she paused to pull it higher through her 
girdle. If only she could reach the barge before they 
overtook her ! 

She heard their heavy steps grinding on the road 
behind, and, knowing it was useless to fly from them, 
she slackened her pace to let them go by. As they 
came up, she glanced at them, and saw that, though 
French men-at-arms, they were strangers to her. 

“By my soul ! a fine woman !” cried one of them, 
stopping to stare insolently. 

“Come on,” growled the other. “We’re too near 
the camp to think about women.” 

“Rather too down in the mouth for my taste, to be 
sure,” continued the first one. “Fve no liking for 
a gloomy face. Still ” 

“Will you come on ? I shall go without you.” 


272 A Romance of Old Wars 

But the soldier was eyeing her curiously. 

“Now, this is odd!” he cried. “Curse me if it is 
not! Here’s a woman dressed up like a fine lady, 
and walking the highways like a tramp !” 

His companion shrugged his shoulders, and called 
her by a vile name, at which they both gufifawed 
with laughter. 

Suzanne sighed tremulously as they strode away. 

“O God, have mercy!” she gasped, and followed 
slowly along the road, thankful to see their stalwart 
figures disappearing into the distance. They soon out- 
stripped the bargeman, and then Suzanne walked 
more quickly. She glanced from time to time over 
her shoulder, fearful of another such encounter, and 
at the sight of three more men upon the road behind 
her she began to run, clutching her child to her breast, 
and calling to the bargeman to stop. 

He looked round, and, checking the horse, waited 
for her. 

She came up to him panting. 

“Sir, will you let me travel a little way in your 
barge? If you could let me ” 

He shook his head, saying something in a patois 
between Flemish and French. 

She made him understand by gesture what she 
wanted. Then, indicating the three men, who, reeling 
from side to side, were fast overtaking them, she im- 
plored him with eye and hand to help her. 

The man gave vent to a volley of guttural ex- 
clamations. 

He nodded his head, and hauled the barge a little 
closer in. The bottom jarred against the mud, and 


A Romance of Old Wars 273 

Suzanne sprang on board, and sank down amongst 
the piled-up sacks of flour. 

As the bargeman pushed it out again into the stream 
the three men passed along the road, droning out 
incoherent scraps of songs, and staggering against 
each other. 

Obeying a crack of the whip and a series of harsh, 
inarticulate cries, the horse strained to start. The 
rope tightened, quivered, and, almost imperceptibly, 
the barge moved. 

Suzanne leant back with closed eyes, listening to 
the beating pulses in her temples and ears. A cool 
air touched her face, and the water rippled beneath her 
with a gentle lapping sound. 

Presently a ray of the sun fell warmly on her cheek, 
and reddened her lids. She opened her eyes. 

She was leaning against a heap of sacks, the low 
light tinting them with the delicate fawn colour of 
eastern clouds at sunset. The river extended as far as 
she could see through a flat land, here and there 
darkened by woods; the water, streaked by an oily 
smoothness, reflected the pale sky, and the long grasses 
that grew on the banks. In front the dark figures of 
the man and his horse plodded steadily along the 
path. 

Suzanne drew breath. Her pulses grew quiet, and 
the sensation of haste that had spurred her through- 
out the day subsided. She had come to a pause, and, 
for the first time since Matthieu had left her two 
nights ago, she tried to think coherently. 

Chatelfors! She was on her way there; she had 
started ! 


274 A Romance of Old Wars 

A vague misgiving troubled her. Matthieu had 
avoided taking her there, or even speaking of it. Nor 
had he ever talked to her directly of his mother and 
grandmother. Had he told them? Surely, then, they 
would have sent some message, some greeting, to her ? 
But then, again, they might have been indignant with 
him, and written such things that he had kept them 
from her, lest they should hurt her ! 

But supposing he had told them nothing, what 
then? Would they be angry with her? Ah, no! no! 
They had loved Matthieu, and she came with his child 
in her arms ! 

‘'His child! My darling! My little one! His 
child !” 

A cart full of wine-casks travelling northward came 
towards them, dragging heavily against the ruts, jolt- 
ing into the crevices and over stones with a jar that 
made the barrels in it leap. 

The bargeman shouted a greeting, and the carter 
pulled up. They exchanged a few sentences, the 
bargeman throwing out his hand in the direction of 
Gravelines. The carter looked doubtful, and scratched 
his head ; then he shrugged his shoulders and continued 
his journey. 

Suzanne watched them idly. She guessed the gist 
of their talk. 

“If he can’t get past the French camp,” she thought, 
“at least, he will have a good market for his wine.” 

Her thoughts went back to Chatelfors. 

Was Madame Huette there? Huette, to whom he 
had been betrothed, whom he had left for her ? Maybe 
she too knew nothing. 


A Romance of Old Wars 275 

“She must have loved him, also. Oh, mon Dieu! 
mon Dieu !” 

Later on they came to a lonely little tavern, and 
the bargeman, leaving his horse to graze, went in. A 
cart was waiting at the door, watched over by a small 
boy, who, as the rough voices within rose excitedly, 
stood on tip-toe to look in through the window. Pres- 
ently there was a lull, and a woman came to the door 
and stared at Suzanne. She disappeared, and the 
clamour rose again, mingled with a volley of shrill 
talk. 

There was another lull, and this time a big bearded 
man appeared in the doorway to scrutinize Suzanne, 
and he, too, returned into the tavern. A second man 
came out, and fixed her with narrow eyes. He called 
out something to those inside, and the voices became 
more vehement. 

When at last the bargeman emerged, Suzanne had 
not moved, but she was very white, and she looked 
into his rough face with anxious, questioning eyes. 
He grinned reassuringly, and with a nod to the com- 
pany who had collected at the door, he cracked his 
whip. As they went away up the river the two men 
and the woman came out on to the bank to look after 
them. 

The sun set, and the short autumn day was coming 
to an end. The man trudged steadily on in the twi- 
light, and the barge slid through the ghostly gray 
water. The sacks were gleaming with a filmy white- 
ness. 

At last the bargeman gave a call to his horse, and 
the creature stood still. The barge was brought close 


2 j 6 a Romance of Old Wars 

in to the shore, the horse unharnessed and tethered. 
There was the clank of a chain, and then a slow 
swaying of the barge as the man stepped on board. 
He fumbled with a steel and lit a lantern, grumbling at 
every movement ; then he produced some food, plenti- 
ful though coarse, and at her request shared it with 
her. 

As the darkness deepened Suzanne tried to sleep. 
The bargeman, pillowed amongst his sacks of flour, 
breathed heavily; but the cold of the night made her 
wakeful, and she only dozed, to continue her thoughts 
in dreams, and wake again. Through the long silent 
hours she was thinking of Matthieu, recalling every 
detail of her search for him, and of her watch by his 
body. Her mind repeated it sleeping and waking, per- 
sistently, again and again. Hour after hour she lay 
there motionless, unable to quell the restless torment of 
her brain, from time to time opening tearless eyes to 
gaze up at the starlit sky, and to search the darkness 
for the first gleam of dawn. 

About an hour after midnight the child woke, and 
sent a desolate cry through the wide silence. She fed 
him, and crooned to him till he slept again. She was 
entirely awake now, but more at rest. The baby, 
asserting his existence, had brought her an indescrib- 
able solace. 

She leant back, spent into passiveness, watching the 
flow of the dark river, which with its subtle move- 
ment and subdued murmur was like some living 
presence. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


Just before daybreak they started again, and by 
the time the sun had risen they were well on their 
way. After harnessing his horse, the man clambered 
back into the barge, and slept for another half-hour. 
Then he roused himself, and breakfasted, offering 
Suzanne her share with a nod and a grin. She won- 
dered how far he was going, and tried to ask him ; but 
he misunderstood her, and only replied by a reassuring 
jerk of his head and a string of emphatic exclamations. 

After they had been travelling for about an hour, 
the road on the bank became more frequented. Carts 
lumbered out of the by-lanes, peasants with baskets of 
vegetables, or driving cattle, appeared at the cross- 
roads, and they overtook others gossiping at the way- 
side taverns. Suzanne noticed that they spoke French, 
though in a dialect that was unfamiliar to her ears. 

One and all eyed her with curiosity. 

Then, as the morning haze cleared, she saw that 
a town lay south of them, looking as ethereal in the 
morning sunshine as if carved out of atmosphere. It 
was still some seven or eight miles away, the river 
leading towards it like a gleaming ribbon over the 
flat land. 

Suzanne called to the bargeman, pointing it out. 

“St. Omer,” he replied. 

The sight of the strange town gave her a feeling of 
exhilaration ; it made her realize that she had achieved 


277 


278 A Romance of Old Wars 

an appreciable distance. But the momentary buoyancy 
died as it was born. Every minute was widening the 
gap of time and space between her and Matthieu, and 
at her journey’s end she would be just so much fur- 
ther from the time of her happiness. 

She took it for granted that the bargeman was going 
no further than St. Omer. Thenceforth she would 
have to walk. 

As they came nearer to the town, the river in front 
of them became blocked with traffic. Men were strug- 
gling with their barge-poles and tillers, shouting direc- 
tions, and swearing as the unwieldy crafts got jammed 
together. 

Before they, too, were involved in the turmoil, Su- 
zanne took leave of the bargeman, and as she tried to 
make him understand her gratitude, giving him almost 
half her money, a rush of tears filled her eyes and 
stifled her voice. The good man nodded and grinned. 
He tugged at his chin, with grunts of exasperation, as 
if seeking some new mode of expressing himself, but 
apparently failing, he again started to nod and grin. 

Suzanne followed the companies of peasants who 
were walking towards the town. At the gate they 
were stopped to pay duty on their merchandise, and 
in the midst of the noisy business of weighing and 
measuring Suzanne passed on her way through the 
ever-accumulating throng. 

Everyone turned to stare at the strange lady who, 
unattended and on foot, was walking up the street, 
and a little crowd of idlers collected and followed her 
about. The townsfolk were uncertain whether she 
were crazed or a saint from heaven, and though they 


A Romance of Old Wars 


279 


wavered between mockery and reverence, the doubt 
kept them from actively molesting her. She paused in 
the market-place to buy food, which she put in the 
folds of her hitched-up skirt. In the open space she 
looked upward to note where the sun was, and then 
chose her way along a street running south. 

The inquisitive scrutiny of the citizens, verging 
perilously upon derision, troubled her, and it was 
with relief that she passed out on to the highroad. 
At the gate a swarm of beggars assailed her. She 
turned her eyes away from the maimed limbs that 
they thrust before her, and hastened her steps. 

“I can’t — I can’t give !” she excused herself to her- 
self. 

“I dare not, or all my money will be gone.” 

She almost ran to escape the whining clamour they 
sent after her. 

During the first few miles she passed from one 
alarm to another. Travellers upon the road were not 
frequent enough to be any protection against each 
other, and at each fresh encounter she had to face the 
same stare of amazement, knowing that she was help- 
less against any brutality. And each time she passed 
steadily on, so unflinching and unconcerned that, like 
the townspeople of St. Omer, the wayfarers half be- 
lieved her to be supernatural, the extreme unusualness 
of a well-dressed woman walking alone on the high- 
road rather confirming them in their suspicions. 

After about three hours she sat down to rest and 
feed the child, but in a very little while she started 
again, patiently trudging upon her way. 

As she went further from the town the road became 


28o a Romance of Old Wars 

almost impassable ; it was washed by rain into ravines, 
torn by the roots of trees, and overgrown by brambles. 
Within a short distance of each village, however, it 
was more cared for ; but the villages were very few 
and far between, and Suzanne’s feet were soon bruised 
by the hard, deep ruts, and her shoes torn. She grew 
very tired, and began to walk with a dogged slouch, 
seeing nothing but the road before her. She did not 
notice now that the labourers in the fields round the 
hamlets paused to look after her with vague wonder, 
nor that the children collected to follow her inquisi- 
tively for a little way along the road. 

She walked on through the afternoon, and on 
through the evening, resting seldom, and never for 
very long. 

The sun went down, the twilight began to thicken 
into dusk, and she grew anxious at the solitude round 
hen She strained her eyes, gazing along the road in 
front of her for some sign of a habitation, but there 
was none. 

At last she perceived a small, distorted figure com- 
ing towards her, and as it approached she saw that it 
was a hump-backed beggar. 

‘T will ask him,” she thought. “He has come along 
the road. He will tell me.” 

But as he hobbled towards her she hesitated; he 
was so loathsome with dirt and disease. Matted hair 
hung on each side of a blotched, bearded face ; his head 
was sunk between his shoulders, and he gaped at 
her with a wide, toothless mouth. He stopped on 
seeing her, transfixed, never doubting that she was 
an apparition. 


A Romance of Old Wars 281 

“Sir,” said Suzanne, “can you tell me if there is 
an inn near here ?” 

At the sound of her voice the beggar’s alarm van- 
ished. This was no saint from heaven, sent to trouble 
his conscience, and perhaps foretell disaster. Eh, no ! 
This was flesh and blood. Heaven was kind ! 

“An inn!” he replied. “Yes, dame; there is an inn 
about a mile further on, dame.” 

“Thank you,” said Suzanne, and took a step for- 
ward, but the hump-back thrust himself in her 
way. 

“Madame, madame,” he whined, “for the love of 
Heaven, spare me a trifle ! Look at me ! deformed 
from my birth, madame, and afflicted with sores ! 
Look, madame” — he bared his breast, revealing a 
horrible wound — “the hand of God is heavy upon me ! 
Blessed are they who hold out a generous hand to 
God’s poor ! For the sake of the Blessed Virgin, 
dame I She will reward you ! I am hungry ; I have 
eaten nothing all day. Not a morsel has passed my 
lips! Alms, madame! For the love of Heaven, a 
trifle to buy me a mouthful of bread!” 

Suzanne drew back, holding her child away from 
him. With her free hand she opened the little wallet 
at her girdle, and gave him a denier. 

The man fell on his knees, clutching at her gown, 
while he called down every blessing upon her. 

“May the Holy Mother of God reward you, and 
grant you your dearest desires ! May all things pros- 
per with you !” 

“Let me go !” cried Suzanne breathlessly, trying to 
disengage herself. 


282 A Romance of Old Wars 


‘‘May you reach your journey’s end in safety! May 
your child become great and powerful! May you 
never know hunger or sickness ! God keep you, 
madame, and repay your generosity !” 

He was slobbering kisses upon her hand. With a 
shudder she wrenched herself free and fled, leaving 
him there upon his knees, still whining out prayers 
for her welfare. 

For a long time she could hear his nasal voice, and 
turning her head, could see him like a black blot upon 
the road, and it was not till she was both out of sight 
and earshot that she paused to take breath. In her 
haste her skirt had slipped, and she pulled it higher. 
As she did so she missed her wallet. Anxiously, with 
trembling fingers, she felt along her girdle. Yes, it 
had gone ! Her mirror, her comb, her sweetmeat box 
— they were all there, but the purse and the money in 
it had gone ! 

That, then, was why the beggar had pressed so close 
up to her. 

She stood still for a moment, her heart beating fast. 

“Still, I have my mirror and comb, which I can 
sell,” she thought. “And it is no use standing here,” 
she decided, walking wearily on again. “The inn 
cannot be far now.” 

Another fear beset her. What if he had lied about 
the inn? 

“I cannot care much,” she thought dully. 

“But I do ! I do care !” A cry broke from her lips. 
“My child ! my child ! I must reach some shelter for 
him !” 

A few minutes later she perceived a glimmering 


A Romance of Old Wars 283 

light, and the dense shape of a house by the road- 
side. 

“Thank God ! No, he has not lied.” 

Clutching the child with all the strength that was 
left her, she went towards it. She stumbled once, and 
fell on her knees. Somehow she reached the door 
and knocked. 

The door was flung open by a middle-aged woman, 
who uttered a cry of astonishment. Behind her the 
room seemed full of men, and a thick smoky atmos- 
phere met Suzanne like a hot cloud. The sudden light 
confused her. 

“Can I spend the night here?” she asked faintly. 

“Mon Dieu ! madame ! But come in ! come in !” 
cried the hostess shrilly. She was a sharp-faced 
woman with a voluble tongue and quick movements. 

“But what accident has overtaken madame, that she 
should be here alone at this hour of night?” she cried. 
“Come in ! come in ! I have another room at the back, 
where madame can rest in private! This way, ma- 
dame, this way. Holy Virgin ! But madame looks fit 
to drop to the earth I Marie ! a light ! a light ! I will 
bring madame some broth, and heat a little wine; or 
will madame take a cordial? I have some, prepared 
with my own hands I I can vouch for its quality ! 
Make room, you great lout, and let madame pass!” 

Suzanne followed her into the inner room, and sat 
down by the table. The child, liking the warmth, 
began to utter little sounds of contentment. He kicked 
gaily as he lay on Suzanne’s arm, wrinkling up his 
features with spasms of laughter, and beating his tiny 
hands against her tragic face. 


284 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Tiens !” cried the hostess. ''And a little child, too ! 
Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! But it will be the death of 
you! Were you attacked by brigands, madame? And 
your attendants ! Are they behind you ? or have they 
been killed ? Eh ! the dangers of the road in these 
days! Truly it is better to stay at home! What a 
scandal! But how did madame escape?” 

Suzanne raised her eyes. 

"I am no fine lady,” she said. "I am peasant-born.” 

‘‘Whatr screamed the woman. ''WhatT she cried 
again. "But So that’s it, is it ?” 

She came and stood before Suzanne, her arms 
akimbo, swelling with outraged respectability. 

"So that’s it, is it? It’s no accident, then, that has 
cast you out upon the road! And you think to 
obtain a lodging by speaking soft, and wearing finery 
that you’ve no right to ; and because you carry a child 
in your arms, I suppose you think that no one would 
have the heart to turn you out again as you deserve ! 
And once you are safe within my doors, you proclaim 
shamelessly what you are! I’ll have you know that 
I’m an honest woman ; my inn bears a fair name, and 
I’ll have no dealings with such as you !” 

"Do you think that?” said Suzanne, and her voice 
shook a little. 

She stretched out her hand across the table to 
show her ring, as she had shown it a year ago to 
the soldiers’ wives. 

"He wed me, and he is dead,” she said; and sud- 
denly letting her head fall against her extended arm, 
she began to cry wildly, her shoulders heaving with 
passionate, long-drawn sobs that were almost moans. 


A Romance of Old Wars 285 

The veil of her coiffe fell forward on to the child’s 
face, and he chuckled with delight, as he waved his 
soft rounded arms in the maze of its folds. 

The woman was taken aback. She looked in silence 
at the slender, bowed figure, and at the white hand 
with its emerald ring. A tear surprised her. She 
brushed it away with the back of her hand and gave 
a loud sniff. 

“Come! come!” she said huskily. She went to Su- 
zanne, and bent over her, trying to raise her. 

“Don’t think of what I said! My tongue is hasty, 
and I thought I knew all about it. But here’s some- 
thing I don’t understand at all, and my talk has gone 
all askew. Hush! hush! my dear! Crying won’t 
bring him back, and I can’t bear to hear you. No, 
that I can’t. God forgive me! I didn’t know what 
I was saying!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


When Suzanne took leave of the hostess the next 
morning, the others travellers had already started, 
and the little inn was as quiet as a homestead. She 
offered the woman her carved ivory comb in payment 
for her hospitality. 

“But it is worth much more than a night’s lodging!” 
cried the hostess, as she took it; and not only did she 
give her a small sum of money as change, but she 
supplied her with food for the day. 

“And take my advice,” she added ; “don’t wear your 
ring where everyone can see it. Put it with your 

money inside your gown. Or No! let me tie 

it round the little one’s neck.” 

Suzanne was stiff and very tired, and for the first 
hour she walked heavily, dragging her feet. Her shoes 
were cut and soon hung in tatters. She threw them 
away, and henceforth went barefoot. 

Later on she ceased to notice her fatigue. She got 
used to it, and fell into the patient, steady trudge 
which comes from unrelieved weariness. 

In four or five miles she met a couple of peasants 
carrying faggots, and a shepherd with his flock. Then 
she passed through a forlorn little village, dominated 
by its grim chateau. A group of children, playing in 
the dust, called out in astonishment when they saw 
her, and ran to fetch their mothers. Two or three 
286 


A Romance of Old Wars 287 

women stepped out into the lane to watch her, and a 
dog bounded out of a shed, its head in the air, barking 
and howling. After this the road became wilder and 
more lonely. 

The long stretches of scarcely undulating land, as 
wide to her eyes as the wide sky, seemed to typify her 
loneliness. Measured by the desolate distance, her 
patient trudging seemed pitifully slow. So many 
miles to be trodden step by step extended between her 
and her journey’s end, and Chatelfors now appeared 
so remote that her former misgivings seemed beside 
the point. She scarcely contemplated arriving there, 
though she was certain that in time she would arrive. 
All her energies were gathered up in a sort of passive 
strength to endure and walk on — to walk on and 
endure. She felt as if she had been walking for many 
weeks, and almost it seemed as if the highroad were 
the only reality, and everything else a dream. 

About mid-day she saw two men not very far in 
front of her, and she was instantly alert and on the 
watch. They looked back and spoke together. Pres- 
ently they disappeared in the bushes by the way- 
side. 

She hesitated. Were they waiting for her? Should 
she turn back, or sit down till they should have gone? 
But in either case, she was equally at their mercy. If 
she turned back, they could overtake her long before 
she could reach any refuge, and at the best she would 
have the ground to cover again. And perhaps, after 
all, they meant no harm. Maybe a path turned out of 
the road there where they had vanished. 

She went slowly forward, her gaze fixed upon the 


288 A Romance of Old Wars 


place where she had last seen them. As she advanced 
she saw that they were still there, sitting upon the 
bank. 

“I ought to have gone back!” she thought, in an 
agony of fear. ‘‘It is too late now. Oh, help me I 
help me, God !” 

She fancied that they laughed meaningly as she 
passed. Then they scrambled to their feet and fol- 
lowed her. 

One of them, an evil-looking ruffian, with a knife at 
his belt, came up beside her. 

“A fine day, dame,” he said. 

‘‘Yes, sir,” said Suzanne. 

‘‘You’ve ventured far from home, dame,” he went 
on. 

She said nothing. 

The other man was now walking beside his com- 
panion. 

‘‘Too far for a good-looking lady to be alone,” he 
said, with a sneer. “Women should not travel a lonely 
road unprotected.” 

“We are travelling this way too,” resumed the first 
one. “Aren’t we, Alain? Will madame accept our 
escort?” 

“You are very good, sir,” said Suzanne, sick with 
terror. 

“Good to serve a fair lady I” he exclaimed. “Dame, 
it is an honour!” 

“Tell me, now: where are you bound for?” he con- 
tinued, pressing close up to her. 

Suzanne hastily considered, and then replied: 

“Chatelfors. 


A Romance of Old Wars 289 

“It is so far away!” she thought. “They are not 
likely to know it.” 

“Chatelfors !” cried the man, with an oath. “But 
you are on the wrong road ! She is on the wrong 
road, Alain, isn’t she?” 

“Oh, entirely I” cried Alain. “Cordieu, Hugues ! 
She has come miles round.” 

“Diable! what’s to be done?” cried Hugues, with 
an air of being aghast. 

“I have it!” he cried, standing still and strik- 
ing his forehead. “Fool that I was not to have 
thought of it before. There is the path through the 
wood !” 

Alain slapped his thigh. 

“Dieu ! that will take us into the direct road to Cha- 
telfors.” 

“It is rough walking, to be sure, but it will save 
miles.” 

“Oh ! Eh ! Miles ! T^e-Dieu ! Miles !” 

“Messieurs,” said Suzanne, “you are very good; but 
I know my way.” 

“But I assure you,” cried Hugues, “you are on the 
wrong road! Chatelfors! why, I know it as I know 
my own hand. This will be a short cut into the right 
way.” 

“Sir, I think we cannot mean the same place. I 
know that I have to go straight on,” persisted Su- 
zanne. 

Hugues shrugged his shoulders, and they walked in 
silence beside her, until they reached a narrow stony 
track, half hidden by branches. 

Both the men stopped. 


290 A Romance of Old Wars 

“This is your turning, dame,” said Hugues threat- 
eningly. 

Suzanne stepped backwards, every nerve on the 
defensive. 

‘T will not turn out of the highroad,” she said 
quickly. 

The men exchanged looks. 

“There is nothing for it, then? Eh, Alain? We 
cannot let a defenceless woman go miles out of her 
way.” 

“Eh, no! Diable! it would be inhuman I” 

Hugues took hold of her arm. 

“Come along,” he said. 

“I will not !” she cried. 

“Here! take the child,” he called to Alain; but as 
Alain went up to her, Suzanne uttered a shriek so 
prolonged and piercing that they involuntarily re- 
treated a few steps, and glanced up and down the 
road apprehensively. She sank down on her knees, 
crouching over her baby. 

But before they had moved again she looked up 
quickly. 

“Will you let me go for money?” she asked breath- 
lessly. 

Hugues came towards her. 

“Give it, then,” he said roughly. 

She took the money the hostess had given her out 
of the breast of her gown, and put it in his hand. 

He counted it. 

“Is that all ?” he cried. “What else have you got ?” 

“Yes! what else have you got?” asked Alain. “It’s 
not enough. What else ? what else ?” 


A Romance of Old Wars 291 

Suzanne leapt to her feet, and tore the little knick- 
knacks from her girdle and flung them down on the 
road. 

“Take them, too, then !” she cried frantically. “Take 
them; and may God’s curse be upon you! Take the 
little things I was counting on to be able to feed my 
baby, and may the sound of a hungry child’s cry ring 
in your ears night and day till the hour of your death ! 
May it hinder you in your last confession, and may it 
drown the sound of any voice that is trying to comfort 
you I Take them, then !’’ she shrieked ; and the child, 
terrified by her violence, began to wail, as if in re- 
sponse to her curse. For a moment more she con- 
fronted the two men in silence ; then, bending her head, 
as if intent upon soothing the child, she walked away, 
and they let her go. 

That afternoon the wind rose from the south, urging 
swollen gray clouds across the sky. Their shadow 
swept over the earth towards her. They passed over 
the sun, and the sudden extinguishing of light and 
warmth seemed to be the expression of her own shiv- 
ering spirit. 

The road now curved towards the southeast. 

Rain fell, slanting, stinging against her face. She 
disengaged the long skirt of her surcotte from her 
girdle, and turned it up to wrap round her child, and 
she struggled on with bent head against the driving 
rain. Her high coiffe grew sodden and heavy. The 
wind caught it, and the wet veil flapped in her face. 
Seeking a meagre shelter against a tree, she unfastened 
it, and threw it away, letting her black plait hang un- 
covered down her back. The ruts were now full of 


292 A Romance of Old Wars 

water, and the hard crusts of earth were dissolving 
into slush. Her bare feet became caked with mud, and 
the hem of her surcotte at the back and of her cotte- 
hardie were draggled and stained. 

The wayfarers she met now took no notice of her. 
She passed through villages unobserved, and towards 
evening, when she met a tramp and his wife at cross- 
roads, they greeted her as one of themselves. 

“Foul weather, this !” growled the man. “It’s begin- 
ning now. Almost too late in the year to be on the 
road. Time to be fixing where shelter is to be had, 
if it’s only a doorway.” 

Suzanne nodded. 

“You’re going lame,” said the woman. “Have you 
come far to-day?” 

Suzanne nodded again. 

“All day,” she said. “I’ve been walking all 
day.” 

The woman gave a sympathetic jerk of her head. 
Talking was difficult against the wind and rain. 

“Where does this road lead to?” asked Suzanne 
presently. 

“Eh?” 

“What’s the next town?” she called out. 

“St. Poe,” said the man. “And it’s not far now, 
either.” 

They struggled on through the stormy dusk in 
silence, sometimes stopping to turn their backs on 
the gusts and draw breath. They reached the town 
an hour later. 

Inside the gate Suzanne turned to them. 

“Where are you going? Where will you pass the 


A Romance of Old Wars 293 

night? Do you know of any place where they will 
take one in?’" 

They took her to a hospital for wayfarers in an ad- 
joining street, and left her under its gateway, to 
seek haunts of their own. 

That night Suzanne spent under the quiet, imper- 
sonal care of white-clad nuns. They admitted her 
into the large clean dormitory, bathed her bruised, 
mud-stained feet, and set bread and wine before her. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


Suzanne now found that the terrors of her defence- 
lessness suddenly ceased. Coiffeless, barefooted, and 
way-worn, she journeyed safely. The two days’ walk 
had frayed the edge of her underskirt; the rain had 
rendered the stuff of her gown dingy and discol- 
oured ; the slush had soiled it with gray stains. The 
fine lady had disappeared. She was a tramp, and as 
such no one molested her or regarded her with as- 
tonishment. The constant alarms that had kept her 
mind alert subsided, and she let her thoughts brood 
uncontrolled as she plodded along. 

She had grown thin, and the bones of her hands 
showed sharply as she clasped her draperies round 
her child. Her face was wan, and had settled into 
lines of patient endurance. No thought of self-pity 
occurred to her. She suffered, but she suffered with 
simplicity. Matthieu was dead, and she had loved 
him! He was gone out of her life, and he had been 
her happiness I She was alone in all the world except 
for the tiny inarticulate creature in her arms, and 
she clung to the little living thing that was hers with 
a passionate recoil from her solitude. 

The morning was cold and gusty. Small hurry- 
ing clouds, skimming under a dense mass of cloud, 
threatened rain. 

A messenger overtook her, urging his horse for- 
294 


A Romance of Old Wars 295 

ward, and as he disappeared in the distance the rain 
began. 

After half an hour’s walk she came to an inn, and 
took shelter under the porch. She wiped the drops 
that streamed down her face from her wet hair and 
anxiously felt whether the rain had penetrated to the 
little one through the folds in which she had wrapped 
him. He was crying miserably. The door into the 
tavern was ajar, and through the crack she could see 
the messenger who had passed her on the road sitting 
with a company of men round the fire. 

The hostess heard the crying child, and came to 
the door. 

“What do you want?” she asked briskly. 

“Pardon me, I took shelter here,” said Suzanne. 

“If I might hold the child by the fire for a little ” 

she added timidly. 

The woman took stock of her. 

“Come along in, then,” she said. “I want to shut 
the door.” 

“Wet weather, mistress!” cried a wizen-faced ped- 
lar as she entered. 

“Yes, sir,” she replied. 

“One knows now that winter is coming! Eh?” 
he chuckled cheerfully. “And hard times for 
us wayfarers. We can’t all travel on horseback 
like a messenger! Eh? Come to the fire, mis- 
tress.” 

Suzanne approached one side of the hearth. The 
baby was wailing fretfully, and she swayed to and 
fro as she stood there, trying to quiet him. 

“So the French have entered Gravelines,” said the 


296 A Romance of Old Wars 


pedlar, leaning back on the settle and drumming on 
his knees with his fists. 

“By Heaven! Yes,” said the messenger. “But 
there is not an Englishman the less for all that, worse 
luck ! No ! The cowards, they ran away !” 

One of a company of strolling players, a slim, snub- 
nosed man, went up to Suzanne. 

“Hold up the little one, mistress,” he said. ^T’ll 
stop his crying for you. Ell teach him to twist his 
mouth the other way! Cordieu! Teach them to 
laugh young, and they will laugh well !” and he began 
to snap his fingers over his head, distorting his fea- 
tures into every kind of grimace, as if they were of 
indiarubber. 

Suzanne, watching the grave surprise of her baby, 
smiled. 

“Eh, well !” said the messenger. “They’ll have to 
run out of Flanders if they want to escape the French. 
They are in Bourbourg now, and yesterday the French 
army marched there to besiege them.” 

“And where are you bound, sir, if I may ask?” 

“I? Oh, I am going to Chatelfors.” 

Suzanne lifted her head. She held her breath as 
she listened, fixing her dark eyes upon the man’s face 
with passionate intensity. 

“Chatelfors? Where’s that?” asked the pedlar. 

“Southeast of Paris — a little more east than south, 
though. I go by Amiens and Soissons. That is the 
directest way, and they say ill news travels fast.” 

“Is your news bad, then?” 

“The Sieur is dead,” said the messenger. 

“May he rest in peace !” said the pedlar devoutly. 


A Romance of Old Wars 297 

“Amen !“ replied the messenger. 

“A son to succeed him?” suggested the pedlar pres- 
ently. 

The messenger shrugged his shoulders. 

“Only a lot of women to cry for him, and his be- 
trothed amongst them.” 

“She won’t thank you for your haste !” 

The man grinned. 

“I suppose not. 

“A fellow told me,” he added, “that she is as jealous 
as three, and that the Sieur was in no hurry to marry 
her.” 

“Someone else, eh?” 

“So they say.” 

“Tell her that, mon ami ! It ’ll soften the blow.” 

“Oh, yes; Sainte Vicrge! and get hanged for my 
pains.” 

“Aha!” cried the player, triumphantly pointing at 
the baby’s face. “He is laughing. He has begun 
to laugh! Bravo! Bravo! Do you see?” 

“Yes, I see,” said Suzanne vaguely. 

So Dame Huette was still there, waiting for him, 
jealous of his love! He had not told her, then; and 
had no one else? But if he had said nothing she 
would not believe any rumour that might reach her. 
She was waiting for him ! she had been waiting for 
him all through the past year, and he had not come ! 
and now he was dead! Suzanne’s spirit quailed at 
the thought of that hopeless waiting. 

“I could not have borne it,” she thought. 

Presently the hostess came up to her and told her 
that it had stopped raining; and as Suzanne started 


298 A Romance of Old Wars 

out once more, the woman gave her a kerchief full of 
broken food. 

“Amiens and Soissons !“ thought Suzanne. 

Chatelfors no longer seemed so distant, now that 
the way before her was marked by stages. Amiens 
first, and then Soissons, and then Chatelfors ! After 
all, it could be only a question of days before she 
reached it. She had already come a great distance, 
and this was the fourth day since she had left Grave- 
lines. 

Her heart throbbed quickly, but the tremor she felt 
was that with which one approaches any great emotion. 
She did not doubt for one moment that they would 
accept her as Matthieu’s wife, and that as the child’s 
mother she would live with them, but she expected no 
further recognition. She did not think of herself or 
picture her future; her dreams were all of her baby. 
She fancied him growing into boyhood, into manhood, 
like Matthieu, tall, gay, and with Matthieu’s voice. 

The messenger passed her again during the after- 
noon. 

The sight of him struck her with a pang. 

“He is going to tell them!” and all at once the 
vision of Matthieu’s dead body came vividly before her, 
and she broke into passionate weeping. 

As daylight began to fade, she grew anxious to 
reach some shelter. A convent, some cottage where 
they might be charitable enough to take her in, a 
shed even ! She hurried, but the fast-deepening night 
relentlessly closed over her, and there came a moment 
when she stood still, scarcely able even to distinguish 
the trees against the starless sky. They stirred above 


A Romance of Old Wars 299 

her with sudden, long sighs, and the leaves fell upon 
her face and hands unseen. 

She took a few steps more, and stumbled against a 
great tree-root that stretched across the road. She 
groped past it, staring wide-eyed into the dark, and 
feeling her way with her feet. Her ankle turned 
upon a stone, and then with one foot she felt a noth- 
ingness where there should have been firm earth, and 
she drew back quickly. Evidently the ground had 
slipped away, as it had done in so many other places. 

It was useless to think of going further. 

She felt her way to the bank, and sat down to wait 
till morning. 

The child was cold and cried piteously. She held 
him close to her, wrapping him up against the night 
air, but for many hours his wailing wrung her heart. 

The next morning she reached Doullens, and she 
begged for food at the doors of the bourgeois’ houses. 
All through the day she walked on. Occasionally she 
met other travellers, merchants and tramps, pedlars, 
carters, and messengers; but she was absorbed in a 
dull suffering, and she passed them blindly. 

That day the child began to pine. His little face 
grew pinched, and his cry scarcely ceased. 

Late that night she reached a convent just outside 
Amiens. 

Another day of plodding, the road always unfolding 
before her, and the memory of it stretching behind her, 
interminable, flat, and changeless. The occasional 
hamlets and forests, the few little hills up and down, 
dwindled to mere incidents ; only the bustle and stir 
of the town marked the blankness of the endless road. 


300 A Romance of Old Wars 

Another night in the open air, a night rendered 
agonizing by the torturing wail of the child. 

Another day of walking, of begging, and of hard, 
rough fare upon broken meats. Her one thought was 
for the child. His cry maddened her, and she could 
do nothing for him. 

“When we get there he will be all right!” she 
thought, despair in her heart. “When, when, when I” 

That night she reached Roye, and slept with some 
twenty others in a hospital for wayfarers. The even- 
ing of the ninth day she reached Soissons, and hope 
revived. 

She asked the way to Chatelfors as she started again 
the next morning. 

“A four days’ journey on foot from here,” they told 
her. 

Four more days I She hardly knew whether it seemed 
long to her or short. It put a term to her journey ! 
In four days more she would be there ! But four such 
days I That day the sun shone, and the child revived 
a little. 

She spent that night in the stable of an inn, wrapped 
in a blanket lent her by the charitable innkeeper. One 
more day gone! 

A fever of hope gave her strength. Night and day, 
the starting and arriving, and the long tramp between, 
all passed with the strange unreality of delirium. 

She reached Sabtonnieres on the evening of the next 
day, and the following morning she again asked her 
way. 

Suzanne took shelter that night with the monks of 
St. Luc. No one else was in the hostelry, and the 


A Romance of Old Wars 


301 


yawning lay-brother served her perfunctorily, and 
then shuffled away, leaving her alone. 

All night she sat thinking of the three women at 
Chatelfors. 

“There is Dame Mathilde, and Dame Yolande, and 
Dame Huette,” she thought; “and maybe they don't 
know ! 

“Maybe someone has told them, and they wonder 
why I do not come. 

“He bade me bring the child, and I have brought 
him,’’ she said. 

“By now they must know that he is dead !’’ she 
cried. “Matthieu, Matthieu, Matthieu ! 

*'She must have loved him, too; and she has been 
waiting for him ! 

“There is Dame Mathilde, and Dame Yolande, and 
Dame Huette,” she thought. 

When she set out again the next morning it was 
bitterly cold, and the black trees with their scanty 
yellow leaves stood out against the sky, dull with 
unbroken cloud. 

Throughout that day she walked, her bare feet sink- 
ing into the soft mud. 

It .was dusk when she entered the village. 

All was quiet; every cottage door was closed. 

She went slowly now, gazing up at the great dark 
castle on the hillside. She passed silently along the 
narrow lane between the squalid huts, and through the 
churchyard. 

Suddenly a cry startled her, and she stood still. 

A lank figure was leaning over the fence and point- 
ing at her through the twilight. 


302 A Romance of Old Wars 

She went towards it, and saw that it was Jehan the 
shepherd. 

“Go away ! go away !” he cried. 

“Jehan!" she exclaimed. 

“Go away! go away!” he shrieked. “There is no 
Dame Suzanne 1 It is all a lie ! There is no Dame 
Suzanne !” 

“Jehan!” she said again tremulously. 

“No, no, no !” he cried wildly. “Go away ! It is a 
lie ! I swear it is a lie ! There is no Dame Suzanne !" 

She turned away and went out of the churchyard, 
and up the road that led to the chateau, and as she 
went Jehan ’s frenzied cry rang after her : “It is a lie, 
a lie, a lie !” 

A curve of the road brought her to the great gate- 
way, and she entered under the profound shadow of 
the arch. 

The twilight faded into a thick, still darkness. 

Presently she took the iron bell-pull in her hand, 
and the great bell clanged through the silence. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


The three ladies of Chatelfors were sitting in the 
dimly-lighted hall. 

A lamp, burning with an uneasy flame, hung from 
a bracket on the left side of the fireplace, opposite the 
entrance from the courtyard. A tall pricket candle- 
stick stood by Dame Mathilde, who was sitting on 
the other side of the hearth, austerely erect upon her 
carved elbow-chair. The old chatelaine held a rosary 
between her white shrivelled fingers ; her eyelids were 
lowered, and she seemed absorbed in her prayer. She 
had an aspect of remoteness almost nun-like. 

Beneath the hanging lamp, and opposite to Dame 
Mathilde, Dame Yolande sat gazing into the fire. Her 
black, two-horned coiffe rose sombrely above her white 
forehead ; her gown, also black, was very long and 
edged with fur. Her shadow, cast upon the floor by 
the lamp above her, shrank and spread as the flame 
wavered from side to side. 

Huette was spinning beside Dame Mathilde, and 
the whir of her wheel was the only sound in the room. 
She, too, was dressed in black, and her red hair was 
plaited in two long plaits. Her face was set with a 
fierce reticence, but in her eyes there was a look of 
haunting misery. 

Dusk hung under the beamed ceiling, and shrouded 
the limits of the hall. The lamp and candle, and the 


303 


304 A Romance of Old Wars 

flickering flames on the hearth, threw a vacillating light 
upon the pale faces of the three black-robed women. 

When the bell rang, they all looked up, and Huette 
stopped spinning. They listened. 

“Who can that be?” exclaimed Dame Yolande. The 
door that led into the courtyard opened, and the porter 
entered, shutting it again to keep out the cold. 

“Madame, there is a woman at the gate, who asks 
to speak with you,” he said. 

“A woman? A stranger?” said Dame Mathilde, 
surprised. 

“Yes, dame.” 

“I suppose she wants shelter for the night,” re- 
marked Huette. 

“But is she alone ?” exclaimed Dame Yolande. 

“Yes, dame.” 

“Bring her in,” said Dame Mathilde. 

They waited in silence, watching the entrance. Al- 
most at once they heard the man’s returning steps. 
The door opened again, and they saw a woman’s figure 
silhouetted against the night sky. Then it closed be- 
hind her, and she was veiled by the dusky shadows 
in the room. 

For a moment she seemed to pause ; then she came 
forward into the light with silent steps, her dress 
rustling over the straw. Her hair hung in a thick 
black plait, and strands of it streeled over her fore- 
head. Her green surcotte, which she had lifted in 
front and wrapped round the child in her arms, was 
soiled and threadbare, and beneath the ragged edge 
of her skirt they saw that her feet were bare. The 
firelight deepened the shadows on her haggard face. 


A Romance of Old Wars 305 

Her look passed quickly from one to the other, and 
rested upon Huette. 

“You are Madame Huette,” she said gently. 

Huette looked up, surprised. 

“Yes?” she said, with a question in her tone, but 
even as she spoke her face hardened with a sudden 
suspicion. 

“I am Suzanne.” 

There was a pause. 

“What does she mean? Who is she?” asked Dame 
Yolande plaintively. 

“Suzanne? What Suzanne?” said Huette. “We 
know nothing of any Suzanne here.” 

“Is that so?” said Suzanne sadly. “Then mon- 
seigneur did not tell you?” 

“What does she mean?” cried Dame Yolande again. 
“Who is she? What is she talking about? I don’t 
understand.” 

“Hush, Yolande,” said Dame Mathilde; and bend- 
ing forward, she said sternly to Suzanne : “Explain 
yourself. What had my grandson to tell us concern- 
ing you ?” 

“I was his wife,” said Suzanne simply, “and this is 
his child.” 

“Impossible !” exclaimed the old chatelaine, sinking 
back in her chair. The rosary fell with a clatter on 
to the floor. 

Dame Yolande uttered a cry and burst into tears. 

Huette rose. 

“Go,” she said in a low voice, pointing towards the 
door, and Suzanne recoiled in astonishment before 
her. 


306 A Romance of Old Wars 

“Go,” she repeated. “Do you hear me ? Go.” 

“But you don’t understand !” cried Suzanne. “Mon- 
seigneur bade me come ! He bade me bring the 
child to Chatelfors when he was dying!” 

Huette laughed harshly. 

“Are you fool enough to think that we shall be- 
lieve that?” 

“It is true, madame; it is true!” 

“True, when he is not here to deny it!” exclaimed 
Huette, with the sound of a cry in her voice. “Oh, 
it is so easy when a man is dead for a woman to pro- 
test that he married her !” 

“If what you say is true,” said Dame Mathilde 
gravely, “surely you have some proof ?” 

“Proof!” cried Huette; “what do I care for proof? 
Let her go!” 

Suzanne took the ring from the baby’s neck, and 
held it out to Dame Mathilde. 

“Do you know that ?” she asked. “He wed me with 
it more than a year ago.” 

Dame Mathilde took the ring, and turned it over 
and over between her fingers. 

‘'Impossible she muttered. “Married, and he be- 
trothed to Huette!” 

“A ring is no proof,” said Huette. “It is too 
quickly stolen from a dead man’s finger.” 

Suzanne turned round sharply. 

“Ask them !” she cried. “If you will not believe me, 
ask ! Ask the Comte de Villerou ! Ask the Sieur de 
Neblon! Ask Maitre Paul and Maitre Olivier! Ask 
your peasants here in the village — Nicol, Simon, Gas- 
ton ! They all know that monseigneur wed me !” 


A Romance of Old Wars 307 

“Do you think I would believe it if all the world 
told me?” said Huette passionately. “He promised 
to come back to me ! He promised ! He gave me 
his word ! Who are you to come, now that he is 
dead, to thrust yourself between him and me? It 
is a lie ! a horrible lie ! Matthieu was my betrothed ! 
In all but name I am mistress of Chatelfors ! Do 
you think I will believe any stranger who comes and 
tells me he was false to me? Go, go !” she cried. “Go 
the way you came, or I will have you driven away !” 

Suzanne did not move, nor did she reply at once. 

Then she said ; 

“I will not go. Monseigneur bade me come. This 
is his child’s home. He has a right to stay !” 

Huette laughed again. 

“Her child’s right ! Listen to her ! His right ! 
What right has he to live? If Matthieu had married 
you, he would have told us. Can’t you see that you 
are trying to prove him faithless and a liar? Him! 
And you expect us to believe you !” 

“Of course, it is absurd!” cried Dame Yolande. 
“And if she was his wife, why does she wear such 
clothes ? Look at the state she is in !” 

Dame Mathilde raised her head and scrutinized 
Suzanne sharply. 

“Where have you come from?” she asked. 

“Gravelines, madame.” 

“And how did you come?” 

“On foot, madame.” 

“You walked?'' 

“Yes, dame.” 

“And you pretend, then, that Matthieu, having mar- 


308 A Romance of Old Wars 

ried you, left you to come to Chatelfors on foot and 
unprotected!’' exclaimed the chatelaine. 

“He bade me bring the child,” said Suzanne, “and 
I started at once. It is not as if I were a real lady. 
I am peasant-born, madame.” 

Dame Mathilde covered her eyes with her hand. 

“Impossible I” she said again. “It is impossible I” 

There was a silence. 

Then Dame Yolande remarked: “You know, I al- 
ways said Matthieu would go his own way. It was 
useless to try and persuade him against his will.” 

A quiver passed over Huette as if she had been 
cut. 

Suzanne swung round towards Matthieu’s mother. 

“Ah, madame, do you believe me, then? He mar- 
ried me, he who was so magnificent! He came one 
day — he came, and he wed me then and there! I 
was afraid! I did not trust him! I did not guess 
how I should love him ! How could I guess what it 
would be like to be his wife? How could I know? 
He was so great a noble ! There was no one like him ! 
And now he is dead, and I am utterly alone !” 

But Dame Yolande shrank away from her. 

“I — I do not know,” she faltered. 

Suzanne came close up to her, to show her the little 
wan sleeping baby in her arms. 

“Madame, see! This is his child — called Matthieu, 
too ! Monseigneur bade me bring him to you. Look 
at him, madame ! It is your son’s son, and all that is 
left to us now that monseigneur is dead !” 

Huette gave a little strangled cry and bowed her 
head upon her hands. 


A Romance of Old Wars 309 

The tears were streaming down Dame Yolande’s 
cheeks. 

“My son! my son!” she moaned. 

Suzanne knelt before her. 

“Madame, madame, look at him! It is Matthieu’s 
child, and you are Matthieu’s mother! He has sent 
him to you as a message, and something to comfort 
you. He is not so utterly gone while we have his 
child.” 

Huette turned round, clenching her fists. 

“Ah, mon Dieu!” she cried hoarsely. 

They all looked at her, and Suzanne rose hastily 
from her knees. 

“Why do you not go ?” gasped Huette. 

Dame Mathilde went up to her and took her 
hand. 

“Huette,” she said, “think what you are doing. 
Whatever this woman is, you cannot send her away 
to-night. Leave us to settle this, and ” 

But Huette pulled her hand away. 

“No,” she said; “no one shall settle this but my- 
self. This is my concern. It lies between me and 
her, and you have no right to interfere — you, who 
brought me here as a child, to be Matthieu’s wife ! I 
have given him my love, my youth, my trust, and it 
was at yotir bidding. If I choose now to turn this 
woman from Matthieu’s door, you have no right to 
hinder me.” 

Suzanne looked into Huette’s face. 

“I can’t go,” she said, and her voice shook. 

She pressed her lips together, and forced back her 
tears. 


310 A Romance of Old Wars 

“I can’t — I can’t start out again, with nowhere in 
all the world to go to! I cannot walk along the 
highroad for ever, knowing that for me it leads no- 
where — that one turning will do as well as another, 
I can’t face the cold and hunger and loneliness, and 
with nothing to hope for! A day is so long when 
there is only the night at the end, and then another 
day! Madame, how can I live if you turn me out? 
One cannot live without hope! And my baby! my 
little baby! What shall I do? Must I see him die, 
because I can’t help him? No, no, no!” she cried 
wildly. “You cannot turn me out! You who are a 

woman, too! You who ” Her voice broke, and 

she bowed her head over the sleeping child in her 
arms. 

Dame Yolande sniffed. 

“Of course, she mustn’t go!” she said. “It would 
be wicked, Huette. And, after all, she may be speak- 
ing the truth.” 

“The truth!” echoed Huette. “Will you take her 
word against Matthieu’s, then? 

“I have told you,” she went on, “that this rests 
between me and her. She comes to me with lying 
lips to tell me that Matthieu broke his word, and 
when I refuse to listen she appeals to my womanhood ! 
But what pity does she show to mef She tells me 
that the man I loved gave her his love ! She would 
add bitterness to my grief by denying me the right to 
grieve! She would take from me the only comfort I 
have, the only thing that is left me out of the ruin of 
my life ! She flaunts her motherhood before me — me, a 
childless woman, widowed without having been a wife ! 


A Romance of Old Wars 31 1 

And then with tears, and a threat of dying by the road- 
side, she tells me that I shall not turn her out! Ah! 
let her die 1 What does it matter to me ? The sooner 
the earth is rid of her the better ! Matthieu promised 
me! He was betrothed to me from the time when 
we were children together ! He gave me his word ! 
He promised — promised — promised !” Her breath 
caught in a wild, choking sob. 

She sat down facing Suzanne. 

“There is the door. Go,” she said. 

There was a profound silence. Dame Mathilde had 
returned to her chair; her hands rested along its arms, 
her head was bent. She was utterly crushed. Then 
Suzanne raised her face. 

“I will go,” she said ; and Huette gave a sharp laugh. 

“I will go,” said Suzanne, “but Matthieu’s child 
shall remain. He is the Sieur, and you shall not drive 
him out. Monseigneur bade me bring him here. His 
last thought was for his child. If I may not stay, I 
know I may not take him with me — to — to want. And 
maybe — it is — easier to leave him than — than — to 
watch him — suffer.” 

She laid the child on Dame Mathilde’s lap. 

Then she turned and went quickly to the door. 

They saw her dimly through the dusk, they heard 
her fumble with the latch. 

A sudden cold air lifted the straw on the ground, 
and made the lamp flicker. The door closed, and she 
was gone, without another word, without looking back. 

Dame Mathilde sat motionless, gazing down at the 
little child on her knee. 

Suddenly Dame Yolande started up. 


312 A Romance of Old Wars 

“You cannot let her go!” she cried, and rushing to 
the door, she flung it open. 

“Suzanne, Suzanne, Suzanne!” she called. “Su- 
zanne, come back !” 

Her voice rang out in the silence. 


RAHAB 

A POETIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 

By Richard Burton, Author of Literary Lik- 
ings," Forces in Fiction," “ Life of Whittier," 
etc. I 19 pp., i2mo, $1.25 net. (By mail, 
$1.31.) 

A drama of the fall of Jericho, and especially of the part which 
the enchantress Rahab played. 

“ . . . A poetic drama of high quality. . , , Simply and fluently written, 
with many felicities of phrase. , . , Plenty of dramatic action ” 

— Ntw York T'imts Review, 

The author has handled the subject with great ingenuity and often with 
strong dramatic effect . . , much poetic beauty in the lines . . , and the 
action is well sustained.” — Chicago Record- Herald, 

“ It has qualities that arc uncommon in contemporary verse. It is devoid 
of surplusage and bombast. Its ‘sentiments’ are often moving and its 
backgrounds always picturesque. . . , Written in admirably workmanlike 
blank verse .” — Tte Nation, 

DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY 

Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Pinero, Shaw, 
Phillips, Maeterlinck. By Prof. Edward Everett 
Hale, Jr., of Union College. With gilt top, 
1 . 50 net. ( By mail, $ i . 60. ) 

An informal discussion of their principal plays and of the perform- 
ances of some of them. A few of those considered are Man and 
Superman^ Candida^ Cyrano de Bergerac y U Aiglon^ The Sunken 
Belly Magda ^ Ulysses y Lettyy /r/r, and Pel leas and Meltsande, The 
volume opens with a paper ‘‘On Standards of Criticism,’’ and con- 
cludes with “Our Idea of Tragedy,” and an appendix of all the 
plays of each author, with dates of their first performance or publication. 

“ It is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so 
free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted by common sense . . , 
an excellent chronological appendix and full index . . . uncommonly 
useful for reference .” — New York F.vening pKit, 

“ Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most inter- 
esting of literary fields. , • . Provides a varied menu of the most interest- 
ing character . . . Prof. Hale establishes confidential relations with the 
reader from the start . . . Very definite opinions, clearly reasoned 

and amply fortified by example. . , Well worth reading a second 

time ” — Dial, 


Henry Holt and Company 

Publishers New York 


1;KEN'TAN«)'S 
ot.fcM-llers StationiT'^, 

v»'i'.- i-'i’ici'**'- •'• *-'• 



